


vanishing act

by zach_stone



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Adrian Mellon Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon-Typical Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Homophobia, M/M, Meet Before Derry AU, Mild Sexual Content, Mixed Media, Podcast, Repressed Memories, True Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22297795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zach_stone/pseuds/zach_stone
Summary: Vanishing ActTrashmouth Productions★★★★½ (10,687 ratings)Parental Advisory – Explicit Content[Subscribe]Details | Ratings and Reviews | RelatedFrom the Provider:Vanishing Act is a weekly true crime podcast hosted by comedian Richie Tozier. Each season, Tozier explores the details of a different missing person case, with assistance from guest informant Eddie Kaspbrak. Vanishing Act has been running since summer 2013 and is on its third season.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 263
Kudos: 953





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to whatever this absolute madness is that i've started for some reason!! this is part one of my reddie true crime podcast au. first, some thanks to the fics that inspired me, namely "pareidolia" by hal_incandenza, an incredible pacific rim fic that's inspired by the black tapes podcast. i based the podcast transcript portions of this fic on their formatting. also, "baby, there's no other superstar" by kaspbrakziers, who reminded me how much i've been wanting to try a mixed media fic. 
> 
> i think everything here is fairly self explanatory format-wise. ONE FORMATTING NOTE: during the podcast sections, [...] means that some of the transcript has been removed. i'm not about to type out full 45-minute podcast transcripts, so you're just getting selections. 
> 
> that's it! have fun!

**Vanishing Act  
** Trashmouth Productions   
★★★★½ (10,687 ratings)

Parental Advisory – Explicit Content  
[Subscribe]

Details | Ratings and Reviews | Related

From the Provider:

Vanishing Act is a weekly true crime podcast hosted by comedian Richie Tozier. Each season, Tozier explores the details of a different missing person case, with assistance from guest informant Eddie Kaspbrak. Vanishing Act has been running since summer 2013 and is on its third season.

\---

VANISHING ACT: SEASON 3 – DERRY

EPISODE 1 – “GEORGE DENBROUGH”

Publish Date: July 8, 2016

[Ambient background noise — audio of wind rustling through leaves, crickets chirping quietly, all the sounds of a quiet, rural evening. Then RICHIE TOZIER speaks, his voice high and slightly nasal, currently pitched to a dramatic storyteller’s tone.] 

> RICHIE TOZIER (VOICEOVER): An unassuming small town. A missing child. I know what you’re thinking — you’ve heard this one before. But I can guarantee that _no one_ has heard about this missing child case — and likely murder — from Derry, Maine. _I_ hadn’t even heard about it, until I got an anonymous email. Here’s what it said.
> 
> [RICHIE takes on a new voice, this one with the gravelly hiss one would expect a ransom note to be voiced over during a bad thriller movie, and reads the email aloud.]
> 
> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): _(in character voice)_ “If you want a story that will really blow your little socks off, try George Denbrough, October 1988. No one’s covered this one. You want a big break, don’t you Richie?” _(returning to his normal voice)_ And boy, do I ever.

[The instrumental intro to “The Killing Moon” cover by Nouvelle Vague begins to play.]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): I’m your host, Richie Tozier, and you’re listening to Vanishing Act, season three. 

_Under a blue moon I saw you_

_So soon you'll take me_

_Up in your arms_

_Too late to beg you or cancel it_

_Though I know it must be the killing time_

_Unwillingly mine…_

[Intro music fades out, replaced by more quiet ambiance — this time, the gentle sound of rain.]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): There was a PDF attached to the email, a scan of an old local newspaper dated 1988. Some little town in Maine I’d never heard of before. A six-year-old kid, George Denbrough, goes out one day to play in the rain, disappears without a trace, his family assumes he’s been washed away in the storm, and the body is never recovered. There’s a picture of him in the paper — the scan’s in black and white, but he’s a cute kid. It kind of broke my heart to look at him, he was just so young. But that’s about all I could get from the newspaper. Luckily, I have a special someone I can turn to if I want to dig up more dirt on stories like this. 

\---

Richie met Eddie Kaspbrak three years ago, when the first season of Vanishing Act was still in progress and only two episodes had been posted. He was covering a fairly well-known case, a missing kid in a small town in Indiana, but this was before Serial really busted the whole “true crime” scene wide open the following year and everyone and their mother started a podcast. Richie was just barely ahead of the curve — or, to put it more honestly, his manager-turned-producer, Steve, was ahead of the curve. It was the perfect way, Steve reasoned, for Richie to pull in a new audience. Podcasts were the _thing to do_ these days, and Richie’s standup career was admittedly starting to plateau. 

So Richie started Vanishing Act, releasing episodes on a weekly basis, and two episodes in Steve forwarded him the link to a Reddit thread. The thread featured Reddit user ekaspbrak76 absolutely _ripping_ into Richie’s podcast and his apparently flawed fact-checking abilities. 

_Something to think about,_ Steve had said. So Richie did what any reasonable person would do, and sent ekaspbrak76 a private message.

> **to:** ekaspbrak76
> 
> **subject:** vanishing act
> 
> **message:** hey buddy, this is richie tozier. i make vanishing act. appreciate the scathing review, dude. between you and me, i don’t know what the fuck i’m doing with any of this shit. if you promise not to blow up my spot, maybe we can move this to email and you can give me some pointers? -richie
> 
> **to:** realrichietozier
> 
> **subject:** Are you kidding?
> 
> **message:** Is this a joke? If it is, fuck you. Quit trolling message boards and learn how to tell an accurate story. If it’s not… sorry for cussing you out, first of all, and second of all, just call me. I know a lot of details about this case that you clearly didn’t bother to look up. Here’s my number: (212) 555-7642. Ok bye. -Eddie
> 
> P.S. “Buddy” and “dude” in one message is a LITTLE excessive, don’t you think? 

Their first phone call ended up being four hours long, and half of it was the two of them shouting at each other. Not even in anger or disagreement — Richie was just generally loud by nature, and it turned out that Eddie was, too, and together they ended up in a sort of yelling feedback loop of enthusiasm. Eddie was a featured guest on episodes five and six of Vanishing Act season one, and after that he became something of a staple on the show. He checks Richie’s facts and calls him on his bullshit, and has ambiguous “sources” that he uses to get details that aren’t readily available to the public. 

All this to say, it took about six months of knowing each other for Richie to figure out that he was in love with Eddie, though he knows he was probably at least a little bit in love from the start.

\---

[The “click” of a recording device turning on. EDDIE KASPBRAK talks in a rapid-fire string of aggressive syllables, like he thinks no one will listen to him if he doesn’t say everything as quickly as possible.]

EDDIE KASPBRAK: I don’t know where your listener found this fuckin’ story, Rich, but I had to do some _serious_ digging to find anything else about it, where the fuck even _is_ Derry, I’ve never heard of it before in my life. 

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): As long-time listeners already know, that’s Eddie Kaspbrak, guest informant and expert in having a stick up his ass. You think _I’m_ the reason this show has an “explicit” rating on iTunes? That’s all Eds. 

RICHIE: Yeah, you’re telling me. But you found something?

EDDIE: Obviously I found something, I always find something. There’s not a lot about Derry on public record in general, and even less about this whole Denbrough case because it’s so old. According to the papers, the kid was missing and assumed dead for almost a year. That’s about all I could find at first, but then I found some, uh, more _confidential_ information —

RICHIE: _(delighted)_ Ooh, let me guess — you used the dark web? Hacked into someone’s mainframe?

EDDIE: Shut the fuck up, asshole, do you want me to get arrested? 

RICHIE: That sounds like a yes to the mainframe-hacking.

EDDIE: _(extremely dramatic and weary sigh)_

RICHIE: _(laughing)_ Okay, okay, what did you find? 

EDDIE: I found… _(sound of computer keys clacking)_ …hang on, I’m sending you the file over Skype. 

[Sound of Skype message notification, followed by a computer mouse clicking.]

RICHIE: “Henry Bowers”? 

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): According to another newspaper article that Eddie found, in August of 1989 a sixteen-year-old kid in Derry named Henry Bowers was arrested and charged with the murder of his dad, who was a local cop. Apparently he waited until his dad fell asleep in front of the TV, and then stuck him in the neck with a switchblade so he’d bleed out. Grisly, sure, but I didn’t see the connection with our story.

RICHIE: Eds, not that this isn’t also fucked up, but maybe we can save this for season four? What does this have to do with Denbrough? 

EDDIE: Okay, well, that’s the local paper, right? Publicly, this Bowers kid was arrested for killing his dad, and _later_ they also convicted him of murdering four kids over the course of a few months. Including George Denbrough. 

RICHIE: _(whistles)_ Jesus. That’s fucked up. Sixteen years old? 

EDDIE: I fucking know. But it gets worse. 

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): It sure fuckin’ did. In some definitely-not-illegally-obtained police records, the Derry PD said that there was no actual evidence Bowers had killed any of the kids — including George. None of their bodies were ever recovered, and Bowers didn’t admit to any of the crimes. All they really had to go on was that he kept saying “I’m not done” and “I have to kill them all” when he was arrested. 

EDDIE: You want my opinion —

RICHIE: _(interjecting)_ Oh, always, baby.

EDDIE: _(muttering)_ Jesus Christ. _(regular volume)_ Okay, my _opinion_ is that the cops were looking for a way to wash their hands of all the missing children cases that year, so they pinned it on Bowers because he was a fucking nutcase and couldn’t defend himself. 

RICHIE: That’s so fucked. For all they knew, George was still out there!

EDDIE: _(quietly, surprisingly hesitant)_ I mean… probably not, Rich. He’d been missing for almost a year. I think it was safe to assume he was dead.

RICHIE: …Right. I, uh. I don’t know why — it just felt wrong to say it.

EDDIE: I get it. It’s fucked up. 

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): After the break, more on the conviction of Henry Bowers, and something surprising about George Denbrough’s family. Stay with us.

[SPONSOR BREAK] 

[...] 

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): …And as a child of the ’80s, lemme tell you: parents just didn’t give a shit about their kids back then. I mean sure, my parents probably liked me, but they didn’t know where I was half the time, and they didn’t care. You think the helicopter moms and dads of 2016 would let a six-year-old go running around the neighborhood alone in the rain? Fuck no. 
> 
> Anyway, at the end of my conversation with Eddie, he dropped _this_ bomb on me. 

[Audio playback from an earlier conversation.]

EDDIE: Here’s the really crazy part. George Denbrough’s parents both passed away a couple years ago, but I found out he has a living relative. You’ll never fucking guess who it is. William Denbrough, author of The Attic — you know, that fucked-up horror novel that’s getting made into a movie this year? Yeah. Turns out he’s George’s older brother. 

[End clip.]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): My producer emailed William Denbrough’s agent to see if we could get in touch with him, and maybe even get him on the show. So far, we haven’t heard back. I’ll keep you posted.

[…]

\---

The night after Richie finishes editing the first Derry episode for the show, he has the nightmare for the first time. Richie is no stranger to night terrors — everyone’s had at least one really fucked-up dream — but this is like nothing he’s experienced before. 

Everything feels hyper-real, the colors too vivid and just slightly _off_ from how they should be, and sounds are too sharp and loud. Richie is standing in a small stream of water. It’s shallow, more of a trickle over the bed of rocks than anything else. Trees and shrubbery are thick on either side. And directly to his left, half-hidden by the weepy overhang of a large tree branch, there’s a storm sewer tunnel. It opens like a yawning mouth, pitch black and endless. Richie’s stomach feels hollowed out, fear settling like ice in his lungs as he stares at the tunnel. The sun beats hot on the back of his neck. He tries to take a step forward, but his limbs are taffy, stretching and pulling without actually moving closer to the mouth. Maybe it’s better that way. 

From deep inside the tunnel, he hears a child crying. It starts out as a whimper, and then gets louder and more hysterical, until the kid is wailing in absolute fear. Richie can’t move. The colors of the trees get more and more vibrant, until they’re so oversaturated it hurts to look at them, and all he can do is look into the black of the tunnel, which seems to be growing bigger the longer he looks. It’s taller than he is now, at least twenty feet in diameter, the trees pushed back and away from it. 

Abruptly, the child’s screaming stops. The air is so silent, not even the water is moving anymore. Richie can only hear his own nervous, labored breaths.

His breathing gets louder, more ragged, and he realizes it’s _not_ his own. He starts to turn his head and feels warm, rancid breath hit his cheek. 

It’s right behind him.

Richie wakes up to the sensation of falling, and lands flat on his back on his bedroom floor, twisted up in his sheets and drenched in sweat. He stares up at the ceiling, his heart pounding. “What the _fuck_ was that,” he says out loud. He’s never had a dream like that before in his life, but he can’t shake the skin-crawly feeling that it was all… familiar. 

His alarm clock tells him that it’s just after three in the morning, but he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to go back to sleep now. He disentangles himself from his sheets and throws them back onto the bed before stumbling out of his room and into the kitchen, where he drinks a glass of water in one long gulp, illuminated by the dull yellow light from the fridge. Richie sets the empty glass on the counter and runs his hands over his face.

He’s read things, in the stories he talks about for the podcast, that would reasonably fuck anyone up. As drawn as he is to missing person cases, there’s something about missing _child_ cases in particular that both fascinates and terrifies him. He’s not sure why — he doesn’t remember having any particular real-life trauma from a kidnapping or something when he was younger, and it’s not like he has kids of his own to project his worry onto. But ever since that first story he covered back in season one, the missing kid in Indiana, Richie’s found himself digging for more and more of these stories of missing kids, not sure what he’s looking for or why. 

When he got the email about Derry, it sent a chill through him. He didn’t tell Steve, or even Eddie, because it sounded stupid and insane even to himself, but it felt like this was the story he’s been waiting for all along. 

No matter how fucked up the stories were that he’s covered in the past, though, they’ve never given him nightmares. Eddie’s told him that a few of the cases made it hard for him to fall asleep at night, but Richie’s prided himself on his ability to read about this shit and remain unshaken. 

It’s safe to say he’s pretty fucking shaken now. 

He goes back into his bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed, and then he grabs his phone and texts Eddie. 

**Richie**

u up?

**Eds 😈**

Is this what the kids refer to as a booty call

**Richie**

LOL u wish

**Eds 😈**

Wait why are you even awake? 

It’s like 3:30 over there

**Richie**

thinking abt the denbrough story

**Eds 😈**

That shit is fucked up man that’s what I’ve been saying

**Richie**

u ever get bad dreams from working on the podcast with me?

**Eds 😈**

Sure, dreams about your ugly mug

I’m kidding

Did you have a bad dream?

**Richie**

u make it sound like im 5 when u say it like that

nvm i think i just ate something weird before bed

**Eds 😈**

I keep telling you spicy food fucks with your dreams bro 

You gotta start listening to me 

**Richie**

eds i always listen to you 😘

**Eds 😈**

Yeah fucking right

Go to sleep

**Richie**

k 

\---

VANISHING ACT: SEASON 3 – DERRY

EPISODE 2 – “SIX TIMES THE NATIONAL AVERAGE”

Publish Date: July 15, 2016

[Ambient music plays.]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): This season on Vanishing Act, we’re digging into the never-before-podcasted missing person case of George Denbrough in 1988. If you’re just tuning in, be sure to go back and listen to last week’s episode or you won’t know what the fuck’s going on. I’ll be here when you get back. 

[“The Killing Moon” instrumental intro fades in.]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): I’m Richie Tozier, and this is Vanishing Act. 

[...] 

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): Thanks to Eddie’s sleuthing and the police records, we were able to find the names of the three other kids who went missing around the same time as George. Fourteen-year-old Betty, sixteen-year-old Patrick Hockstetter, and — Eddie really didn’t like this one — eleven-year-old Eddie Corcoran. Betty’s last name has been redacted, for reasons I’ll get into later. The weird thing with these cases is that there doesn’t seem to be much of a connection between the four kids besides them all living in Derry. Eddie and I talked it out.

RICHIE: There’s no consistent age range — George is way younger than the other four victims. None of them seemed to know each other, there’s no consistent look or gender or — fucking _anything,_ really.

EDDIE: So you’re saying you don’t think it was a serial killer.

RICHIE: I mean, no, right? There’s no pattern. It’s not normal.

EDDIE: Nothing about serial killers is “normal,” Richie. Anyway, Bowers was apparently batshit, maybe he was just picking kids at random.

RICHIE: I thought you didn’t think he actually did it. Because there’s no proof. 

EDDIE: _(sighs)_ Okay, sure, that’s true. I don’t know what to say, man. I didn’t expect this shit to go so deep when I first started looking into the Denbrough story. The number of deaths and disappearances in Derry is six times the national average, and when you’re looking specifically at child deaths it’s even higher than that. _Someone_ had to be doing it, and I don’t think it was one random teenager the whole time.

RICHIE: That’s what I’m saying, there’s something seriously fucked up about that town, way beyond this one case. You said more than _six_ times the national average? 

EDDIE: I couldn’t find an exact number, but yeah. It’s fucking nuts. No one’s even really talking about it, either, it’s like the town barely exists on the national radar. That’s fuckin’ backwater small towns for you, though. 

RICHIE: I want to know how the fuck some random listener found out about it and why they specifically called out this one story. I mean, no disrespect to the Denbrough family or anything, but what’s so special about Georgie when so many kids in Derry died or went missing that year _alone?_

EDDIE: _(softly)_ Rich, come on, is that really appropriate?

RICHIE: What?

EDDIE: Giving the dead kid a nickname feels a little insensitive, don’t you think?

RICHIE: _(after a beat)_ Huh. Shit, yeah, I didn’t — I didn’t even realize I did that. 

[...]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): Earlier, I mentioned Betty, the second kid to go missing during the period of October 1988 through July 1989. I did a little digging of my own last week, and I managed to get in contact with her mother. She’s asked not to be named here for privacy reasons, but she did agree to speak with me. Here’s our phone conversation. As a warning, some of this content could be upsetting to hear.

[The sound of buttons clicking, and something rustling.]

RICHIE: Hi, Mrs. [BEEP]? This is Richie Tozier, from the podcast.

WOMAN: _(quiet, staticky voice of an elderly woman)_ Hello.

RICHIE: Thank you for agreeing to speak with me. How are you?

WOMAN: I’m alright. I’m a little nervous about all this. You say it’ll be on the radio?

RICHIE: It’s a podcast, it’s — it’s sort of like the radio, but it’s digital. You know, on the internet?

WOMAN: Mm.

RICHIE: _(awkward pause)_ So, if you — would you mind telling me about your daughter, Betty? 

WOMAN: _(sharp intake of breath)_ Oh, Betty was… she was a good girl. My little angel. She did so well in school, she had lots of friends…. She was well-liked, you know? Not _popular,_ but people liked her. Her teachers liked her. She was responsible, she had a bright future… _(breaks off, sniffling)_

RICHIE: When she went missing… how did it happen?

WOMAN: She’d always come straight home from school. Every day. She’d never gotten home late before. But one day… it was almost summer break, and she just. She didn’t come. _(sob)_ And I waited for her outside the school, every day until summer. But she never came home. 

RICHIE: I’m so sorry for your loss.

WOMAN: _(abruptly)_ Sometimes I’d hear her voice. 

RICHIE: I’m sorry? 

WOMAN: In… in the sink. The kitchen sink. I’d hear her calling to me. Her father heard it too, God rest his soul. We’d hear Betty… she spoke to us. And sometimes she wasn’t alone. So many children, calling our names, whispering. _(oddly detached)_ But it wasn’t really her. It was the Devil’s voice.

RICHIE: _(unsettled)_ …Right. Okay. _(pause)_ Mrs. [BEEP], do you remember Henry Bowers? He was arrested for the murder of your daughter and three other kids —

WOMAN: _(speaking over him)_ He didn’t do it.

RICHIE: Oh?

WOMAN: That boy was bad news, there’s no denying that. I saw how he acted in the schoolyard — and his father, everyone knew Butch Bowers was a real piece of work. But my Betty never spoke more than three words to Henry in all the years they went to school together. He never paid her any attention, didn’t pick on her. There’s no _reason_ — you know what they found of my daughter? The only thing they could give me from my baby? Her shoe. The police found her shoe in the mouth of a storm sewer. Why would my baby have been down there? But did they check the tunnels, did they look for her? No. 

RICHIE: _(after a beat, voice audibly shaking)_ Did you say a storm sewer? 

WOMAN: _(angry, emotional)_ Betty never played in the sewers, she never went down there — she was a good girl. They said Henry lured her down there, but they never found any evidence that he’d even touched her. No fingerprints on her shoe, nothing!

RICHIE: I — I’m sorry, this sewer tunnel, where…?

WOMAN: It was down in the marshland outside of town, by the creek. I don’t remember much. As soon as the Bowers boy was arrested, my husband and I moved away. I’ve never gone back. I try not to think about it all now. I barely remember that place.

RICHIE: I see. Okay. Um… _(shaky exhale, then silence)_

WOMAN: Mr. Tozier?

RICHIE: _(after a pause)_ Sorry, sorry, I’m still here. Uh, so is there anything else you remember, about any of the other children who went missing around that time? Or —

WOMAN: You know, you’re familiar to me. I think I know you.

RICHIE: _(clearly thrown)_ Uh… well, do you listen to the show? The podcast?

WOMAN: No, no, that’s not it.

RICHIE: Okay. I did standup before this, you know, comedy. Maybe it’s that. Do you ever watch Comedy Central or…?

WOMAN: _(absently)_ Tozier… so familiar.

RICHIE: _(uncomfortably)_ Well, thank you so much for speaking with me. I won’t take up any more of your time. And I’m sorry again, for your loss.

[...]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): I’d finished recording this episode and was editing it together on Thursday when I finally heard back from William Denbrough’s agent — with a cease and desist letter. Denbrough has requested that we stop talking about his brother’s death on the podcast. And honestly, I can respect that. But this season’s not over, and we’re not throwing this case out completely, because there’s a hell of a lot more going on under the surface than I thought when I started looking into this. Whatever the fuck was happening in Derry in the ’80s, it goes _way_ beyond George Denbrough. 
> 
> Getting details about this town has been a challenge, but Eddie’s found a source that’s still in Derry — that’s next week on Vanishing Act. As always, I’m Richie Tozier. See you next week.

\---

[VOICEMAIL INBOX: EDWARD KASPBRAK – 2 NEW MESSAGES]

[MESSAGE FROM – Rich Tozier – 7/18/16 4:22 A.M. EST]

Transcription:

“Hey… it’s me. Richie. Sorry to call so late, I know you’re asleep. I don’t — uh, I don’t know why I’m calling. I keep having this fucked up dream, and — I don’t know. This is really stupid. Does this Derry story feel different than the last two seasons to you? Maybe all this child murder shit is finally getting to me. That call with Betty Ripsom’s mom was fucked up, did you listen to it yet? _(indistinct clattering)_ Ah, fuck. I just — knocked over my fucking water. I should. I should go. Sorry. Bye.” 

END OF MESSAGE.

[MESSAGE FROM – Rich Tozier – 7/18/16 4:30 A.M. EST]

Transcription:

“Hey Eds, it’s Richie again. Listen, uh, ignore my last message. I was like, half asleep and freaking out about nothing. Everyone gets fuckin’ night terrors sometimes, right? I have nightmares all the time. I don’t know why I’m freaking out about — fuck, sorry, rambling again. Anyway, uhhhh goodnight. Good morning? What fuckin’ time is it over there, I don’t even —” 

END OF MESSAGE. 

\---

When Richie finished the first season of Vanishing Act in 2013, he didn’t expect that he’d hear from Eddie again. He was pleasantly surprised that Eddie kept up a steady conversation through text messages and phone calls over the following months. Richie grew intimately familiar with the cadence of Eddie’s voice late at night, Richie sitting on his couch in his apartment in Los Angeles, Eddie several thousand miles away in his house in the New York suburbs. Eddie wasn’t a big fan of being on video, though they’d Skyped twice during the recording of Vanishing Act, so Richie knew what he looked like — the grainy quality of the webcam still captured Eddie’s big Bambi eyes and the wicked slant of his mouth when Richie managed to make him laugh. Otherwise, their relationship formed with only the sounds of their voices, drawing them closer together. 

Six months after they’d wrapped season one, it was very late at night and their phone conversation had drifted into drowsy nonsense when Eddie suddenly said, sounding much more awake than either of them had any right to be, “Can I just — say something? It’s going to sound stupid, but you have to promise not to laugh.” 

Richie smiled to himself, warmed by Eddie’s voice. He held the phone closer against his face, tipping his head back to rest against the couch cushion. “Fire away, Eds.” 

“I just, I know we haven’t known each other that long, but. I feel like I’ve known you forever. Is that weird to say?”

“No,” Richie said immediately. “No, man, not at all. Or, like, maybe it is, but I feel that way too.” 

“Good.” Eddie was quiet for a few moments, and then he said, “I’ve never felt a connection like this with anyone before.”

“Not even your wife?” Richie said, curious. Eddie hadn’t ever said much about his marriage, but Richie had to assume — you didn’t marry someone without some kind of reason. 

There was silence again, and this time it was more tense. Eddie’s voice was clipped, anxious when he spoke. “Let’s not talk about my wife, okay?” 

Six months after _that,_ Eddie told Richie he was filing for a divorce. Richie didn’t know the details — for all that they talked, Eddie was still a fairly private person — but he’d gotten enough of a gist to know that this was definitely a good thing for Eddie.

It was also, maybe, a good thing for Richie, who had realized during that phone call that somewhere along the way he’d started to fall hard for Eddie, but he was trying not to think too much about that. 

\---

UNUSED AUDIO: VANISHING ACT 3.03

[The sound of a phone ringing, then the click of the receiver.]

RICHIE: _(spoken through a groaning yawn)_ This is Richie.

EDDIE: You sound terrible.

RICHIE: _(scoffing)_ Just what every podcaster dreams of hearing, thanks, Eds.

EDDIE: That’s not — I just meant you sound tired, dipshit. When’s the last time you slept?

RICHIE: Last night.

EDDIE: Right. For how long?

RICHIE: I don’t know, a couple hours? It doesn’t matter, man.

EDDIE: _(the sound of his hand hitting against the desk for emphasis)_ It _does_ matter, Richie! Jesus, do I need to forward you those articles about insomnia again? Sleep deprivation can have serious health consequences, especially at our age —

RICHIE: Okay, okay. Give it a rest, Dr. K. 

EDDIE: Don’t pull that crap with me right now, Rich, I’m serious. Why do you make it so hard when I’m just trying to — to care about you? 

RICHIE: _(after a beat)_ I just didn’t realize you cared so much, I don’t know.

EDDIE: _(irritated)_ Of course I fucking care, Richie, you’re my friend! 

[A long pause.]

EDDIE: Rich? 

RICHIE: _(quietly)_ …We’re friends?

EDDIE: _(under his breath)_ Oh, sweet Christ. _(regular volume)_ Is this a bit? Obviously we’re friends, we’ve known each other for almost three years! We talk every day! What else would you call this? 

RICHIE: I don’t know, coworkers?

EDDIE: _(dry)_ Oh, you’d have to be giving me a way bigger cut from the ad revenue before I’d consider calling us _that._

RICHIE: _(laughs)_ Yeah, okay.

EDDIE: Listen, I just… I think this story is clearly taking a toll on you, and I’m worried about you. You sounded really fucked up after that conversation with Mrs. Ripsom, and I don’t know if this shit I found about the bar is gonna make you feel any better. No one would blame you if you wanted to take a break or — hey, are you recording right now?

RICHIE: Yeah, I always am.

EDDIE: Okay. _(sighs)_ Look, I’ll just give you my updates and then why don’t you turn off the tape and we can talk off the fucking record, okay? As _friends?_

RICHIE: _(laughs again, quietly)_ Sure, Eds.

EDDIE: Oh, and Richie? Don’t keep any of this in the fucking show.

RICHIE: Like I would. The last thing I need is to provide the masses with more evidence of you lecturing me. 

EDDIE: You are _so_ irritating, has anyone ever told you that?

RICHIE: You, daily. 

EDDIE: _(laughs)_ Fair enough, fuckhead. But I only say it out of love.

\---

VANISHING ACT: SEASON 3 – DERRY

EPISODE 3 – “DERRY’S DARK PAST”

Publish Date: July 22, 2016

[Ambient music plays.]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): Last week, we found out that Derry is infamous for its high body count — especially when it comes to kids. I also spoke with the mother of one of the kids who disappeared shortly after George Denbrough. This week, I’m talking to a current Derry resident who might be able to give us some more insight into the town’s dark past. If you haven’t listened to the last two episodes, pause this one and do that first. I can wait.

[“The Killing Moon” instrumental intro fades in.]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): This is Richie Tozier, and you’re listening to Vanishing Act.

[…]

[The sound of papers shuffling over a microphone, distant noise of chatter.]

WOMAN: Okay, I think I’m ready — is it recording? 

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): That’s Carole Danner, a librarian at the Derry Public Library. Eddie got in touch with her for me. She’s lived in Derry her whole life — all twenty-three years. 

RICHIE: Yep, we’re live. How are you doing, Carole?

CAROLE: Just fine, thanks. 

RICHIE: So my… uhh, _coworker_ got in touch with you, did he fill you in on what we’re doing on the show?

CAROLE: Sorta, yeah. I don’t listen to much talk radio.

RICHIE: _(defeated)_ It’s… it’s a podcast… _(sighs)_ Anyway, that’s fine. Working in the library, you must have access to a lot of the town’s history. 

CAROLE: Oh, for sure. We learned about it in school, too. Derry started out as a beaver trapping camp, did you know that?

RICHIE: _(clearly choking back a laugh)_ Is that right?

CAROLE: Mm-hm. It’s all very interesting. I have to admit, though, if you want _real_ in-depth history, that’s not exactly my forte. That was always more Mike’s bag.

RICHIE: Mike? 

CAROLE: One of the other librarians. Great guy, super sweet, born and raised in Derry just like me, except a generation older. He had this big research project going at one point, interviewing people in town and taking all these notes, piecing together old stories. Got pretty dark, from what he showed me.

RICHIE: Oh yeah? Anything in particular you remember?

CAROLE: Let me think… oh! There was a story from the ’30s about this old bar, I think it was called the Silver something. I can't remember the exact name, obviously it’s not around anymore. Anyhow, some lumbermen were murdered, so one of their buddies went into the bar one night and killed the murderers with an axe. Just chopped ’em right up at the bar. Honestly, it — can I swear on the show?

RICHIE: _(laughing)_ Fuck yeah, you can.

CAROLE: Okay. It freaked the shit out of me, when Mike told me about it. I’m not a big fan of gore, you know? One of the guys had his arm chopped right off. Isn’t that just disgusting?

RICHIE: For sure, for sure. You know, this sounds like exactly the kind of thing I’m looking for. Is there any way I could talk to your buddy Mike? 

CAROLE: Gosh, I wish you could, but I’m afraid he’s not here.

RICHIE: He’s not at the library?

CAROLE: He’s not in Derry. He left about, oh, three years ago? It was supposed to be a very quick trip, but he never came back. I guess I don’t blame him — people are pretty, you know, traditional values around here, and he’s, well, he’s black. His parents were killed in a fire here when he was very young, and I know he always suspected foul play. The police said it was an electrical fire, though.

RICHIE: Jesus. Well, listen, Carole, if you ever hear from him again, pass my number along, would you?

CAROLE: Of course, no problem!

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): Unfortunately, Carole didn’t have a whole lot more in the way of details, but she did have something she could share with me — one of her friend Mike’s notebooks. She sent over a few pages, and the low-res cell phone pics I got weren’t great for reading, but I did find out a few more things about Derry. It’s got a history of tragedy, and that’s not limited to child kidnapping. I’m talking old-timey shootouts and violent racism, and presumably everything in between. I also got the full name of the bar she mentioned, and our favorite informant looked into it. Here’s Eddie with the scoop.

EDDIE: “The Sleepy Silver Dollar.”

RICHIE: How quaint.

EDDIE: _(snorts)_ That’s a word for it. Okay, so the massacre Carole was talking about was in 1935. This guy Claude Heroux was getting revenge for a few union organizers who were _also_ brutally murdered, Jesus Christ — it says one of the guys was found floating in the river with his legs hacked off and _(gags)_ severed toes in his mouth.

RICHIE: _(whistles)_ Holy shit. Where are you getting this info again?

EDDIE: Old police records. Someone at the PD in Derry digitized the old files, they’re on a server. 

RICHIE: And you conveniently have access to it.

EDDIE: Dude, shut _up._ Anyway, there were other patrons in the bar when Heroux went beserk, but none of them did anything. Apparently they told the police they didn’t want to get involved in politics or some shit. Heroux waited for the cops to arrest him and then he was busted out of jail and lynched shortly afterwards.

RICHIE: What the fuck. 

EDDIE: Yup.

RICHIE: I don’t fucking get this shit, Eds. This place is a goddamn _cesspool_ of cruelty, and — and no one seems to fucking care! It’s insane. I mean, Carole said she learned about some of this shit in school. If I found out that _my_ hometown was a fucking epicenter for bad vibes, I’d be out of there the second I could. How could _anyone_ want — _(breaks off, huffing angrily)_

EDDIE: _(gently)_ Rich? 

RICHIE: Sorry.

EDDIE: It’s all good, man. It’s okay. 

RICHIE: _(clears throat)_ We’ll, uh, be right back after this sponsor message. Stay with us. 

[SPONSOR BREAK]

[…]

\---

Richie is waist-deep in sludgy, murky water, a greenish glow casting everything around him in unnatural shadow. He knows, instinctively, that he’s in the tunnel — the sewer tunnel, the one in Derry where Betty Ripsom’s mother said the police found a single shoe. When Richie looks down at his hands, he realizes he’s holding it. A waterlogged, once-white sneaker, “B. Ripsom” written in faded, damp marker along the inside. Everything stinks like shit and decay, and when he drops the sneaker like a hot potato, it splashes into the water and sends a spray of it upward, making Richie’s glasses all spotty. 

_“Hello?”_ a girl’s echoey voice calls from somewhere further down the tunnel, around the corner where Richie can see nothing but darkness. _“Somebody help me, please!”_

“Betty?” Richie calls, not sure why but somehow knowing that’s who he must be hearing. His voice echoes along the tunnel, thrown back at him from odd angles, like it belongs to someone else. A child. 

_“I wanna go home,”_ a little boy’s voice whimpers from far ahead.

 _“Don’t think you can hide in here all damn day, now,”_ an older boy’s voice sneers, and Richie shudders as the acoustics of the tunnel make it sound like the boy is speaking right in his ear. 

_“Come and play, Richie,”_ a different voice gurgles, and this time it’s everywhere — above him, on every side, even bubbling up from under the sewage water. _“Come back and play.”_

The water starts to shift and churn, and the voices of all the children mingle together into an eerie chorus of giggles that morph into screams. A pale corpse-face surfaces the water, turning sightlessly toward Richie as it bobs, bodyless, in his direction. He recognizes the face immediately, and his blood runs icy cold. He stumbles back, slipping on the silty ground beneath the water, and he falls backwards into it as the sewage cradles him in a wet, cold embrace. 

Richie wakes up gasping like he really had been underwater, and his eyes are damp with tears — or maybe just the cold sweat that’s drenched his forehead, plastering his curls there. He presses a hand to his chest, where his heart is hammering. “Fucking _shit,”_ he mutters, rolling onto his side. He curls in on himself protectively, not yet ready to close his eyes again. He tries to ignore the urge as long as he can before giving up and snatching his phone off the nightstand so he can text Eddie. 

**Richie**

hey eds are u awake

**Eds 😈**

Unfortunately

What’s up?

**Richie**

this is so embarrassing

remember the nightmares i told u abt the other day

**Eds 😈**

Yeah of course

Did you have another one?

**Richie**

yeah

they keep getting worse

**Eds 😈**

Richie I need to tell you something

**Richie**

are u ok????

**Eds 😈**

Yes I’m fine relax

I’ve been having nightmares too

Since we started the Derry episodes

They’re fucked up

And I mean I have nightmares all the time right

Everyone has nightmares that’s just part of being a human person

But these are

Bad

**Richie**

jesus eds 

why didn’t u tell me????

**Eds 😈**

Because I thought it was nothing!!!!!

I wanted it to be nothing

And I didn’t want you to think I was a pussy

**Richie**

well i woke up crying from this one

so if anyone’s a pussy here it’s me

eds? u still there??

**Eds 😈**

You were crying?

Richie are you okay?

**Richie**

i was in the sewer

in my dream

the one betty’s mom talked about, the one i keep dreaming about

and in the water...

fuck, eddie, i saw my own dead face

**Eds 😈**

You fucking what

**Richie**

it was me as a kid but i was fucking dead

and decapitated

it was just my head floating in the fucking water

**Eds 😈**

Fuck

Richie I’m so sorry that’s fucked up

It’s just a dream though

It’s not real

**Richie**

maybe

**Eds 😈**

Richie

Your decapitated child head is not floating in some sewer in fucking Derry

You’ve never even BEEN there

You’re fine and I’m fine and we’re both fine

They’re just dreams

**Richie**

do u really believe that?

eddie?

**Eds 😈**

Honestly?

Not really 

\---

The middle of the night always seemed to be when Eddie would suddenly become vulnerable, confessing things to Richie that neither of them would bring up when they spoke during the day. Shortly after the phone call when Richie realized he was in love, but before Eddie filed for a divorce, they were talking very late and Eddie told Richie, in a shameful whisper, about his near-debilitating fears of sickness and injury and death. 

“I’m thinking about it constantly,” Eddie said. “I get in my car and I’m thinking of the crash statistics. I take the subway and I’m thinking about the chances of me getting which diseases from touching a fucking pole or a kid sneezing on me. It gets so bad sometimes I can’t even hear myself think about anything else. But I’m — I am sick, I have a lot of issues, you know, a weak immune system and shit, so I have to be alert. It’s just so exhausting.”

Richie’s chest hurt just listening to him. “Eds, I’m so sorry. God, why do you even want to work on the show with me, doesn’t it all freak you out? Make things worse?”

Eddie took a moment to respond. “No,” he said finally, slowly. “It’s… it’s hard to explain. I like it because it gives me a — an _outlet,_ you know? Like, I’m gonna be stewing about this shit regardless, I might as well channel it into something fucking productive. It’s the same reason I became a risk analyst, I’m already thinking about the risks all the time, but this way I’m using it for something.” 

Personally, Richie still worried that Eddie was just needlessly exposing himself to upsetting shit over and over again, but he didn’t want to push it. He told himself it was because Eddie was a fucking adult who could make his own decisions about how he spent his time, but Richie knew that the selfish part of himself just wanted to keep Eddie close, in whatever way Eddie allowed him to. If Eddie was willing to brave the panic to keep doing this with Richie, well — Richie was going to hold onto that for as long as he could.

\---

**Steve 👎**

Hey Rich, it’s Steve.

Listen, I heard some of the unused audio for this week’s episode.

I have to admit, I’m a little worried about you.

**Richie**

u know i have ur number saved in my phone, right?

like u don’t have to say “it’s steve” every time

i know it’s steve

when u text me it says “from steve”

**Steve 👎**

Stop avoiding the topic.

I heard your conversation with Eddie.

You haven’t been sleeping.

**Richie**

i leave things out of the episodes for a reason, man

why are u listening to that shit? mind ur business

**Steve 👎**

I think you should take a break.

**Richie**

excuse me

**Steve 👎**

A break, Rich. 

A mid-season hiatus, however you want to spin it, I don’t give a rat’s ass. 

**Richie**

is this a suggestion or an order

**Steve 👎**

It’s not an “order,” Richie. It’s a strong recommendation. 

From your boss.

**Richie**

right, order, got it

am i allowed to say i think this is stupid

**Steve 👎**

You’re allowed to say whatever you want. Just not on the air.

It’s a temporary break, for your health. It’ll be good for you.

And you know Eddie thinks so too.

**Richie**

oh fuck off man, don’t play the eddie card

whatever, fine, i’ll do it if it gets u off my ass

**Steve 👎**

I’ll upload something on Monday to the feed.

**Richie**

😶

\---

VANISHING ACT: SEASON 3 – DERRY

ANNOUNCEMENT – HIATUS

Publish Date: July 25, 2016

STEVE: Hi, I’m Steve Hill, producer of Vanishing Act. Unfortunately, there will not be a new episode of the show this Friday. Richie is taking a short break for health reasons, so the podcast is going on a brief hiatus and will return in August. Thanks for understanding. 

\---

VANISHING ACT: SEASON 3 – DERRY

EPISODE 4 – “DREAMS”

Publish Date: July 29, 2016

[Ambient music plays.]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): Earlier this week, my producer-slash-manager announced that the show is going on hiatus. He’s not aware that I’m uploading this, and on the off chance that he decides to remove this episode in some misguided attempt to get me to “relax,” it’ll also be available in a Dropbox that I’ll link on my social media. I was willing to play along with the mental health break bullshit, but I can’t do it anymore. This shit just got personal.

[“The Killing Moon” instrumental intro fades in.]

[…]

RICHIE: Okay. You ready?

EDDIE: I guess so. Should I go first?

RICHIE: Sure.

EDDIE: _(exhales)_ Alright. Well, first I guess we should give some context… 

RICHIE: Oh, you’re right. Duh. Okay, so about three weeks ago, around the time the first episode of this season was uploaded, Eddie and I both started having… “nightmares” is too gentle a term for these motherfuckers. Deeply disturbing visions, let’s say. And they’ve only gotten worse, and more frequent, the deeper we dig into the Derry story. This is probably going to sound fucking insane, but — we think they’re relevant, so we wanted to share them with all of you. Take it away, Eds.

EDDIE: Um, okay. _(clears throat nervously)_ So, uh, my dreams started with me standing outside of this old house. It’s all rotted and falling apart, a fucking safety hazard, and the yard’s all full of weeds and broken glass and shit. Everything’s very… intense. Like the sun is so hot and bright that it hurts, and there’s the sound of crickets but they’re so loud it’s like they’re literally inside my ears. And the door — the front door creaks open, and inside the house is just black. A void, it’s _nothing._ And I want to move, but my feet are stuck, and a voice starts calling my name from inside the house. Just saying _Eddie, Eddie,_ over and over again. The first time I had the dream, that’s all that happened.

Then it got worse. I kept getting closer to the house every time. First I was on the sidewalk, then I was in the yard, then I was on the porch, and finally one night I actually stepped into the house. And it wasn’t a void after all, it was… pretty dim, but I could see, and the light was all yellow and sick-looking. I could hear the voice again, calling my name, but I also heard a different voice. This time it was a girl. She was calling for help from somewhere in the house.

RICHIE: _(under his breath)_ Betty.

EDDIE: I — I don’t know. Maybe. But I’m following her voice, right, up these stairs, and everything is still so loud and intense, and I can hear breathing and creaking on the stairs behind me. I _know_ something’s following me. Its footsteps are so loud, and they sound squishy, like whatever it is, is soaking wet. But I don’t turn around. If I don’t turn around, it can’t get me. _(laughs humorlessly)_ Fuckin’ dream logic, right? But… but it’s getting closer, and I — I start to have an asthma attack, and I can’t get to my inhaler, I can’t find it, so I stop walking up the stairs, and the footsteps stop, too. _(takes a deep, shuddering breath; his voice is shaking and wheezy when he continues)_ And I don’t move. I don’t move a fucking muscle. Because I can _feel_ the breathing now, it’s right there on the back of my neck. And then a hand grabs my shoulder and it’s just — _rotted._ The skin is full of pus and it’s peeling away and I can see meat and bone and maggots crawling all over it, and it _squeezes_ and the infection is going through it into _me,_ I can feel it turning my blood into sewage and — and I — _(cuts off, gasping for air)_

RICHIE: _(concerned)_ Eddie?

EDDIE: _(after a beat, still a bit breathless)_ I’m okay. I’m fine. Sorry. Um. Anyway. That’s when I woke up. But the thing is, the house… it’s at a corner between two streets, and I remembered noticing the street names in the first dream. Turner and Neibolt. And — and I looked up a map of Derry, last night, and those streets fucking exist. That intersection is real. The fucking _house_ is real. And I didn’t know that until last night! So how the fuck was I dreaming about it! 

RICHIE: I mean, exactly, right? That’s like with me and the sewers. Can I —?

EDDIE: Yeah.

RICHIE: My dreams aren’t in a house, they’re in a sewer. A storm sewer by a creek. And I know what you’re thinking, _(sarcastic voice)_ “Oh, you’re having those dreams because of what Betty’s mom said.” Well with all due respect, dear listeners, that’s fucking _bullshit_ because I had that first dream before I even knew Betty _existed._ The sewer, it’s — there are kids in there, or their voices anyway, crying and laughing and calling for help. And I try to help them every time, I try to _find_ them, but I can’t. It’s so dark and the tunnels go on for fucking _ever…_

[…]

RICHIE: …I always — I always see myself, dead, in the water. All waterlogged like I’ve been rotting down there for weeks. Sometimes my whole body, sometimes just my head. One thing’s consistent, though: my corpse is always me as a kid. And there’s this voice, telling me to “come and play,” whatever the fuck that means. 

EDDIE: Yeah, it… the voice in my dream says stuff to me, too. Not just my name.

RICHIE: Wait, what? You didn’t tell me that.

EDDIE: _(tensely)_ I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay? 

RICHIE: _(after a beat)_ Okay. Well… look, I’ll be honest with everyone here, I’m barely sleeping. I feel like I’m being fucking haunted, by this story, by the missing kids, by — _fucking_ Derry, this tiny-ass town that I never even knew _existed_ until a month ago. But I’ve fucking had enough, alright? It’s one thing to put me through hell, but Eddie’s going through it, too, and that’s not okay.

EDDIE: _(surprised)_ Richie…

RICHIE: No, I’m serious. Whatever the fuck this is about, it doesn’t get to fuck you up, too. It’s my fault you’re involved in any of this shit.

EDDIE: Dude. I wanted to be involved. I _want_ to be involved, currently. It’s not all about you, Rich, I’m part of this too.

RICHIE: …I know. I know. _(shaky sigh)_ Look, all this to say, Eds and I have come to a decision. This is not something I’ve told my producer, and I’m sure he isn’t going to like it when he finds out, but he can’t stop me. 

Eddie and I are going to Derry. We’re going to dig into this shit _on location,_ and we’re going to figure out why the fuck it’s affecting us like this. _And_ we’re finally going to meet face-to-face after all these years.

EDDIE: _(slightly strained)_ Can’t wait! 

RICHIE: Don’t sound too excited there, Eds. 

EDDIE: _(quiet laughter)_

RICHIE: _(seriously)_ Next time you hear from us, it’ll hopefully be from the streets of Derry. We’re getting some goddamn answers, one way or another, and that’s a promise. Something wants me to come and play? Well ready or fucking not, bitch, here I come.

\---

**Richie Tozier ✓** @trashmouth

Vanishing Act goes rogue. Listen to the new ep here when my producer deletes it off itunes:  http://bit.ly/VAEp4 

547 Retweets **·** 3.2K Likes

\---

**Customer Reviews**

Interesting new season! ★★★★

by PattyBlumUris – Jul 29, 2016

I’ve been a fan of the podcast since season 1, and it’s been fun seeing the shift to include what seems to be supernatural fiction alongside the reporting. Looking forward to more. 

_Was this review helpful? Yes | No | Report a Concern_

NOMINATE RICHIE FOR AN AWARD 2K16 ★★★★★

by ghoullian – Jul 29, 2016

to all the haters who said richie can’t do dramatic acting: season 3, episode 4. MY MANS HAS THE RANGE!!!!! 

_Was this review helpful? Yes | No | Report a Concern_

You’re getting close, Richie. ★★★★★

by Bob Gray – Jul 30, 2016

Just close your eyes and see.

_Was this review helpful? Yes | No | Report a Concern_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some fun notes/easter eggs:
> 
> -the stuff about betty's parents hearing voices in the sink is from the book - pennywise-as-kids also said to them "i am legion," which is said by the devil in the bible. wack.  
> -carole danner is mike's librarian friend in the book.  
> -the sleepy silver dollar story is ALSO from the book, i just upped the date from the 1900s to the 1930s to fit the movie timeline.  
> -steve is named after richie's coworker/boyfriend from the leaked 2010 version of the script. his last name is "hill" after stephen king's son, joe hill. 
> 
> thanks so much for reading! i have about half(ish) of the next chapter written, so hopefully that'll be up not too long from now. please leave a comment and let me know your thoughts and what parts you liked best! feedback fuels me. 
> 
> i'm on twitter @hermanngottiieb


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [pennywise voice] hello
> 
> first off, WOW i am fucking... blown away by the response to the first chapter of this fic. thank you thank you thank you, seriously, this fic came to me out of nowhere and i really wasn't sure it was gonna work, so i'm beyond thrilled that y'all are liking it so much!!! <3
> 
> this chapter got intensely long, as i underestimated how much these idiots can talk, so i added another chapter to the count. i'm fairly certain that one will actually be the last one, but truly what do i know. 
> 
> IMPORTANT CONTENT WARNINGS!!!  
> -there is a non-detailed but still reasonably explicit sex scene right up top. i know i put that in the tags, but just so you know.  
> -there is a lot of dealing with homophobia in this chapter, including slurs, internalized homophobia, and canon-typical violence and threats of violence. proceed with caution but please also take a peep at the added tags. 
> 
> i think that's it! enjoy!!!

Richie’s flight lands in the Bangor International Airport at 5:37 p.m. on August first, and he’s sweating through his leather jacket as the plane taxis on the tarmac. He turns his phone off airplane mode and ignores the texts that come in from Steve, opening up his message thread with Eddie instead.

**Richie**

just landed, waiting to get off the plane

**Eds 😈**

Cool

I’m by baggage claim

**Richie**

ok!!! see u eventually if they ever free me

**Eds 😈**

See you soon :)

By the time he’s made it off the plane, shouldering his backpack and weaving his way through the crowd to get to baggage claim, Richie thinks he might actually puke. He’s more nervous, at least right now, about meeting Eddie than he is about any of the shit they might encounter when they get to Derry. They’re driving there straight from the airport, in a rental car Eddie already booked for them. It’s about twenty miles from Bangor to Derry, not exactly a long trip, but enough that Richie’s getting preemptively antsy about the two of them alone in a car together. What if Eddie hates him? Unlikely, given all that he’s put up with during the making of the show, but you never know. Richie finds it best to set his expectations at rock bottom when it comes to relationships — that way, he’s either pleasantly surprised or at the very least not disappointed. 

He spots Eddie right away when he gets down to baggage claim. He’s standing by one of the carousels, his hand resting on the extended handle of a rolling suitcase. It’s been a while since they’ve Skyped, but Richie’s long since memorized Eddie’s face. He’s noticeably shorter than Richie, he can tell even from a distance, which is delightful new information. Richie’s heart starts to race. He pulls out his phone and texts Eddie again.

**Richie**

👀

He watches as Eddie pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket, frowns down at it, and then looks up with searching eyes. Their gazes meet, and Eddie’s face smooths out into something like relief. He waves, and Richie waves back, butterflies flooding his stomach as he jogs to close the distance. The closer he gets, the more jittery he feels. By the time he’s standing in front of Eddie, he feels like his whole body is thrumming, like every cell is shaking with the need to  _ touch,  _ to pull Eddie into his arms. 

Eddie looks similarly agitated, his eyes bright and his hand clenching and unclenching on the suitcase handle. Richie’s about to open his arms for a hug when Eddie awkwardly goes in for a handshake instead. 

“Nice to finally meet you for real,” Eddie says, and his voice is both familiar and brand new, without the distortion of distance and electronics to mask it. 

Richie beams. “Hi, Eds.” He takes Eddie’s hand and squeezes.

The reaction is instantaneous, and so shocking Richie momentarily feels like he’s a fork and Eddie’s grasp is an outlet. Rapid-fire flashes of sensation and memory flood into his body — Eddie is in every one of them, both of them children and best fucking friends. As he remembers, it feels unthinkable that he could ever have forgotten at all, how could he  _ forget Eddie Kaspbrak?  _ Before he can think too hard about it, he notices that Eddie is stumbling backwards from him, trembling like he’s about to fall over, and Richie moves to steady him before he realizes that he’s pretty fucking wobbly himself. His vision tunnels, and he feels himself crumpling to the airport floor before he loses consciousness.

When Richie comes to, someone is slapping his cheek gently. He opens his eyes blearily and Eddie’s concerned expression swims into view, eyebrows pinched together in concern. His hand is on Richie’s face.

“Rich? Hey, there you go, buddy, okay,” Eddie says. He smiles slightly, though his eyebrows remain in Stressed Mode. “You with me, bro? How many fingers am I holding up?” He holds his middle finger up to Richie’s face, and Richie huffs out a laugh.

“One,” he says. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, groaning, and Eddie’s hands shift to help him, one on his shoulder and one against his back. “Jesus, how long was I out?”

“Less than a minute,” Eddie says. He glances around, and Richie notices for the first time that there’s a small crowd gathered around them. “He’s fine,” Eddie tells the onlookers. “I’m just gonna — take him over to the bench over here, he’ll be fine. Thanks.” 

Carefully, Eddie eases Richie to his feet, and they push through the people until Eddie drops Richie down onto a bench by one of the doors leading out to the parking lot. Richie rests his elbows on his knees and puts his head in his hands. He can feel a headache pulsing in his temples, every heartbeat bringing back a surge of that same startled remembering that made him black out a moment ago. 

Eddie sits down next to him and puts a hand on his knee. “Rich?”

“Did you — did you feel it too?” Richie asks, unable to keep the edge of panic out of his voice. When Eddie doesn’t respond right away, Richie lifts his head. Eddie is staring at him with those big eyes, and no amount of webcam footage could ever have prepared Richie for the real thing. Eddie’s mouth trembles, and he presses his fingers to his lips like he’s trying to hold something in. He nods, very slightly, and his eyes glass over with tears. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says quietly. “I remember you.”

“Thank fucking god,” Richie says, and pulls Eddie into an embrace. 

One of Eddie’s hands fists in the back of Richie’s jacket, the other resting on the back of his neck and holding him close. Their foreheads knock together, and Richie’s eyes squeeze shut, phantom sense memories flooding him from being this close to Eddie for the first time in twenty-something years. He’d spent his entire childhood in love with Eddie, and somehow without even knowing he’s gone and fallen for him all over again. It’s overwhelming, the blurry feelings from childhood blending together with what he’s felt for the past two and a half years.

“I don’t know — how did we forget?” Richie says, his voice thick with emotion.

“How did we  _ remember?”  _ Eddie counters. When Richie opens his eyes, Eddie’s looking at him with a kind of naked desperation. “Rich, what the fuck is going on?”

Richie pulls away a little bit, shaking his head. “I wish I knew. I have a feeling we’re in for a whole lot more of whatever  _ that  _ was when we get to Derry.”

Eddie shudders. He glances over his shoulder, like he’s expecting someone to be watching, but people mill about the airport heading to their various destinations and pay the two of them no mind. They’re like the lumbermen being murdered in the bar, Richie thinks wildly, invisible to everyone else. It chills him down to his veins.

“Hey, let’s get out of here,” Eddie says. 

“Lead the way,” Richie agrees.

\---

VANISHING ACT: SEASON 3 – DERRY

MINI-EPISODE #1

Publish Date: August 1, 2016

RICHIE: You know that feeling when you forget your childhood best friend for a couple decades and then you touch their hand in an airport and all your memories come flooding back into your brain so hard it basically whacks you into a new dimension? Is that relatable to anyone else? 

EDDIE:  _ (snorts)  _ I can think of at least one other person.

RICHIE: Yes, Eddie and I are together at long last. And it turns out it’s not for the first time, we just had some sort of decades-long amnesia! Ain’t that a real kick in the dick. We’re en route to Derry right now, and this is the first in what’ll end up being a series of mini-episodes that I’ll be uploading as we go. I’m piecing clips together on my phone, so if it all sounds like shit, that’s why. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, go back and listen to the last four episodes. We can wait.

[…]

RICHIE: …It’s coming back to us slowly, but so far we’ve remembered that we were best friends and grew up in, you guessed it, Derry fucking Maine. I can tell there’s still a lot of gaps in my memory, but we’ll get to that as we can. So! Eds! Share with our devoted audience what it was like to see me in person.

EDDIE:  _ (dry)  _ Well, I almost blacked out.

RICHIE: That’s right, folks, I’m just that ugly.

EDDIE: You actually  _ did  _ black out, what does that say about me, then? 

RICHIE:  _ (fond)  _ That you’re too cute for my heart to handle, Eds.

EDDIE:  _ (clearly embarrassed)  _ Shut up.

RICHIE: For the listeners at home, Eddie is  _ blushing.  _ Cute, cute, cute.

EDDIE: Dude! 

[Rustling over the microphone, and the distinct sound of someone slapping another person’s leather-jacketed shoulder.]

RICHIE:  _ (snickering)  _ Hey, hey! Hands on the steering wheel, ya lunatic. He’s a violent one, our Eds. Oh! Listeners, let me paint you a word picture. How to describe Eddie Kaspbrak…? He is, in a word, a doe-eyed motherfucker. 

EDDIE:  _ (flustered)  _ Pretty sure that’s at least four words. Do I get to describe you now? Richie Tozier, is he a man or is he just one of those dancing inflatable tube guys they put up outside car dealerships? 

RICHIE: Nice try, Eds, but people already know what I look like because I actually post pictures of myself on social media like a normal person. They  _ know  _ I’m one of the dancing tube guys. Now, as I was saying…  _ (adopting what he refers to as his “NPR Voice”)  _ Edward Kaspbrak is currently gripping the steering wheel of our rental car, and his white-knuckling is an impressive contrast to how bright red his face is at the moment —

EDDIE:  _ (wheezing out a laugh)  _ Who’s that supposed to be, Bob Edwards?

RICHIE:  _ (delighted)  _ Fuck, I was just going for general talk radio, but that’s totally who I’m doing, isn’t it? 

[Shared laughter, which fades slowly until the only sound is the hum of the car’s engine as it moves along the highway, taking the two of them closer to Derry.] 

RICHIE:  _ (clears throat)  _ So, anyway —

EDDIE:  _ (crosstalk)  _ I think we should get a hotel in Bangor for the night.

RICHIE: Oh. What? Why?

EDDIE: I… honestly, Rich, I’m fucking scared. I’m not ready to — can we do this off the record, please? 

RICHIE: Yeah, for sure. Hang on — 

[End of episode.]

\---

They pull into the parking lot of the first hotel they come across, and Richie’s shocked that Eddie doesn’t insist on googling the place for reviews about the bedbugs or some shit, but he seems shaken up enough that he clearly just wants to get out of the car. There’s a bored-looking young man at the front desk who greets them unenthusiastically, and Eddie smacks away Richie’s hand when he attempts to pull out his wallet to help pay. 

“You can pay for the room in Derry,” he hisses. Richie shrugs, sliding his wallet back into his jeans and definitely overthinking the fact that Eddie said “room,” singular. 

It appears like he’s going for a single here, too. The guy at the front desk asks, “A room with two twin beds okay for you gentlemen?”

Eddie turns to Richie, his eyebrows raised in question, and Richie opens his mouth to say yes before hesitating slightly. Whatever was going on in the car was definitely at least  _ borderline  _ flirting, and with the way Eddie clung to him at the airport… Richie snaps his mouth closed and shrugs again, raising his eyebrows right back.  _ Your move, Kaspbrak. _

Eddie purses his lips, and a sort of determination settles over his features. He turns back to the vaguely bemused front desk person and says, “Actually, one bed’s fine. You got anything with a king?”

Richie doesn’t say a goddamn word as they take the elevator up to the second floor, or when Eddie slides the keycard into the door to unlock it. They lug their bags inside and Richie watches as Eddie carefully rolls his bag up against the wall. The room is a little small, and the enormous bed takes up most of it. Eddie turns back to Richie, his expression still one of blazing determination.

Richie opens his mouth to say, teasingly, “So, are we —” but whatever stupid innuendo he was about to make gets lost entirely when Eddie strides forward to close the small distance between them, grabbing Richie by the shoulders and hauling him down for a kiss. Richie’s hands flail before coming to rest at Eddie’s narrow waist, fingers digging in. Eddie’s hands slide along the length of Richie’s shoulders and interlace behind his neck. He’s kissing Richie hard and dirty — Eddie kisses like he argues, like he’s got a point to prove. 

And, well, Richie’s gotta give it as good as he’s getting, it’s only fair. He slips one hand underneath Eddie’s jacket and T-shirt, palming the dip of his lower back and pressing him closer. Eddie goes easily, his entire torso now flush with Richie’s, and he sighs against Richie’s parted mouth. When they eventually break for air, Eddie’s lips are spit-shiny and very pink, and he’s panting. His eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide. Richie feels again like he’s just been knocked out of orbit.

“Holy shit, Eds,” he manages. Eddie’s mouth twitches into a self-satisfied smile. He’s sort of petting the sides of Richie’s neck now, letting the tips of his fingers brush the ends of Richie’s hair. It’s as much an act of comfort as it is making Richie wildly horny. 

“I had such a fucking crush on you when we were kids,” Eddie says, his voice gone all raspy. “When you shook my hand in the airport, that’s the first thing I remembered.” 

“Yeah?” Richie says, grinning. “What about now, you still got a crush on me?”

Eddie leans in and kisses under Richie’s jaw, scraping his teeth against the stubble there. “What do you think?” he says, and Richie lets out all his breath, mindlessly stroking up and down Eddie’s back. “I can’t believe you were my fucking gay awakening  _ twice,”  _ Eddie adds, the words kissed into the skin just below Richie’s ear.

Richie laughs. “If it helps, I have a big fucking crush on you, too.” He ducks his head to catch Eddie’s mouth again, sucking at his bottom lip before pressing a firm, long kiss to the center of his mouth. Eddie’s lips part as he exhales slowly. He licks into Richie’s mouth, holding him in place with a hand tangled up in Richie’s hair. Richie’s pressed up against the door, and Eddie’s pressed up against  _ Richie,  _ and there’s no hiding the way both of them are getting hard, especially not when Richie bucks up against Eddie, seeking friction.

“Rich… Richie,” Eddie says, grinding forward to meet him. “Wait, wait. Do you have lube or — or condoms or anything?”

Richie groans. “Fucking  _ no,  _ I didn’t anticipate hooking up in the hotel room, I thought that’d be too optimistic.”

Eddie snorts, tipping his head forward to rest against Richie’s chest. He’s flushed and breathing heavily, and Richie feels hot all over as Eddie’s breath hits his neck. “Well, shit.” He kisses Richie’s throat, lingering, and then pulls back a little, reaching down to hook his fingers in Richie’s belt loops. “How about — here, let me get this.” He fumbles, undoing Richie’s belt and opening the front of his pants, then looks back up. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Richie says immediately. He cups Eddie’s face in his hands and kisses him, quick and hard. “God, yeah, man.” 

And then Eddie licks his own palm and reaches into the front of Richie’s boxers, and Richie’s mind implodes. Eddie’s kissing him again while his hand works Richie over. As far as handjobs go it’s not the greatest he’s ever gotten — it’s a little dry, just this side of uncomfortable — but the fact that it’s  _ Eddie  _ is enough to make it maybe one of the best things that’s ever happened to Richie. His brain keeps getting hit with new little bursts of memory like tiny fireworks going off, making everything that much more intense. Eddie builds up a steady rhythm; Richie’s head falls back against the door, exposing his throat, and Eddie keeps licking and biting at it in a way that’s about to send Richie right over the edge. Eddie’s wrist twists, and he tugs one of Richie’s earlobes between his teeth, and that’s it — Richie’s a fucking goner. He shudders through his orgasm, moaning, and feels somewhat boneless as he sags back against the door. 

“Normally,” Richie pants, his eyes closed. “I have… a little more… stamina. Don’t judge me.” 

Eddie laughs, wiping his hand off on Richie’s boxers and nudging his hips against Richie’s thigh. “No judgement,” he agrees. “It’s not gonna take much for me either, dude.” 

That’s enough to kick some of Richie’s brain back into working gear, because he needs to be fucking  _ present  _ if he’s going to get Eddie off. He’s been fantasizing about this for more than two years now. “What can I do for you?” he asks, kissing Eddie once, twice, as he works the front of his pants open without even looking. “You want my mouth? I can blow you.”

Eddie tenses, and Richie stops what he’s doing immediately. He pulls back so he can look Eddie in the eye, and he seems— more than a little freaked out. He’s biting down hard on his bottom lip, and when their gazes lock, he somehow manages to look scared  _ and  _ apologetic.

“Eddie?” Richie asks, worried. “What’s wrong, what’d I do? We don’t have to —”

“It’s fine, you’re fine,” Eddie says quickly. “Really, I just. Um. I’ll explain it later but I can’t do… that. Not right now. Maybe, could you just —” He puts his hands on Richie’s biceps and manhandles him so their positions are flipped (and  _ fuck,  _ Eddie might be smaller but he’s  _ strong,  _ Richie is gonna lose his mind) and Eddie’s the one with his back to the door. Eddie grabs Richie’s hand and sucks his pointer and middle fingers into his mouth, dragging his tongue along the digits until they’re slick with spit and Richie feels like he might melt into a horny puddle on the carpet. Eddie pulls Richie’s hand out of his mouth and guides it downwards. “Just do what I did, if that’s okay,” Eddie says, squeezing lightly at Richie’s wrist. 

“Anything you want, babe,” Richie breathes, surging forward to kiss him again as he starts jerking Eddie off. Eddie’s  _ very  _ wound up, and it doesn’t take long at all before he’s squirming against the door, his hands fisted up in the front of Richie’s shirt.

“Rich,” he gasps, pulling away from the kiss and tossing his head to the side, stretching his neck. There’s a blush staining his cheeks and all down his throat, and his hair is falling out of place against his forehead. “I’m close, say something.”

“Like what?” Richie says, mouthing at the hinge of Eddie’s jaw.

“Anything, man, I just — I wanna hear you talk, please.”

And boy if  _ that  _ doesn’t send a pleasant little thrill right through to Richie’s toes. He’s a professional podcaster, so he knows  _ some  _ people must enjoy the sound of his voice, but knowing that Eddie wants to hear it because it turns him on is incredibly gratifying. He means to say something sexy, or dirty, but instead he finds himself blurting out, “I love you.” 

Eddie’s face scrunches up and Richie thinks for a second that he’s royally fucked up, but then Eddie’s whining and coming in Richie’s hand, and  _ oh,  _ okay, that worked. It’s a long moment before Eddie’s hands unclench from Richie’s shirt, and he cracks open one eye. “Did you mean that?” he asks, his voice surprisingly quiet.

Richie flushes. “Uh — no. I mean,  _ yes, _ but I didn’t mean to say it right then, I’m really sorry —”

“Richie.” Eddie has both eyes open now, and his vulnerable gaze feels like a punch right to Richie’s solar plexus. Eddie’s jaw works for a moment as he clearly struggles with something, and then he reaches up to cup Richie’s face with both hands. “Please don’t be sorry for that.” He pulls Richie in for a kiss, slow and sweet and with none of the frantic hungriness from a few minutes ago. It unspools something warm and hopeful in Richie’s stomach. 

When they part, Eddie rests his face against Richie’s chest again, and Richie cradles the back of his head. They stand there, just breathing together, for a few long minutes. It’s the closest to contentment that Richie’s felt since he got the anonymous email about Derry a month ago. 

Suddenly, Eddie jerks back, looking mildly alarmed. “Oh, fuck, Richie, we were just in an  _ airport.”  _

“Yes?” Richie says, frowning. 

“We haven’t — we’re fucking covered in germs, we need to shower right now — I can’t believe I put both of our _unwashed hands_ in my fucking _mouth!”_

Richie, laughing, allows himself to be dragged into the hotel bathroom and stripped down in a decidedly unsexy way as Eddie hustles him into the shower. His heart is thumping a steady beat of  _ I love you, I love you _ the whole time — and even though Eddie didn’t say it back, there’s a tenderness in the way he has Richie kneel down so he can wash his hair, and Richie hears what he’s trying to say even without words. 

\---

VOICE MEMO (UNPUBLISHED)

Aug 1, 2016

[The sound of sheets rustling, muffled laughter.]

RICHIE: Checking in with some updates on our past thanks to the magic of post-coital remembering —

EDDIE:  _ (hissing)  _ Dude! You are  _ not  _ telling your entire audience that we fucked! 

RICHIE:  _ (snickers)  _ Okay, you just said it, not me. I can’t help it if boning down reawakens our long-lost childhood memories! Who are we to question the machinations of this —

[A brief scuffle, both clearly laughing. A soft thump, and the audio becomes slightly muffled, as if the phone’s been tossed further down the bed and the mic is no longer near their mouths.]

EDDIE:  _ (suddenly somber)  _ Hey… can I, uh, can I just explain about before?

RICHIE: What, with the…?  _ (gently)  _ Eds, it’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything.

EDDIE: No, no, I want to. It’s — I don’t know what you’re thinking it is, but.  _ (huffs out a breath)  _ Okay. Just. Remember, the other day, when I said that the… voice, in my dreams, it says shit to me? 

RICHIE:  _ (uncertainly)  _ Yes…?

EDDIE:  _ (another sharp exhale)  _ Right, so, the voice, at first it  _ did _ just say my name. But then it started saying other shit too, like, it goes  _ (imitates a raspy whisper)  _ “what are you looking for?” And then, it. Um.  _ (clears throat)  _ It says, “I’ll blow you for a dime, hey, I’ll blow you for a nickel. Hey kid, I’ll blow you for free.” 

RICHIE: Jesus.

EDDIE: And it’s that thing, whatever follows me up the stairs, with the rotting hand,  _ that’s  _ who’s saying it. And it wants to do that to infect me, because it  _ knows  _ I’m already fucking scared of wanting — and I  _ know _ it’s fucking pathetic, it’s just a dream, it shouldn’t  _ matter  _ but I can’t —

RICHIE: _(soothing)_ Eddie, Eddie, hey. It’s not pathetic. They’re — I mean clearly they’re more than just dreams, we wouldn’t be here otherwise.

EDDIE: Yeah.  _ (sighs) _ You know, I haven’t…  _ (embarrassed)  _ I haven’t been with anyone since I got divorced. I knew — I’ve known that I’m gay, but I haven’t. Done anything about it. Before today.

RICHIE:  _ (clearly surprised)  _ Dude, it’s been two years. 

EDDIE: You think I don’t know that? 

RICHIE: Hey, chill out. I haven’t hooked up with anyone in a long time either. Not since… uh. Not since I figured out my feelings for you.

EDDIE: When was that?

RICHIE: You remember that night we talked on the phone really late and you said you felt like you’d known me forever?

EDDIE:  _ (incredulous)  _ Richie, that was  _ two and a half years ago,  _ what the hell are you giving  _ me  _ shit for?! 

RICHIE:  _ (sheepish)  _ Alright, alright, I’m a hypocrite.

[Silence that goes on for several moments, punctuated only by slow, steady breathing.]

EDDIE:  _ (quietly)  _ I’m sorry I made you wait so long. 

RICHIE: Eddie…

EDDIE: I was just scared, I don’t even know why. I liked you so much and whenever you brought up the idea of meeting in person, I panicked. I don’t — I don’t usually get to keep good things, you know? And this felt like it wasn’t real because of the distance, so I could keep it. I figured it would ruin everything if you saw what a mess I am. 

[Quiet, and then the soft sound of a kiss.]

RICHIE: You’re not a mess. 

EDDIE: I don’t know about  _ that, _ but. Thanks.

RICHIE:  _ (slightly more upbeat)  _ So… I was really your gay awakening, huh?

EDDIE:  _ (snorts)  _ Yeah, dipshit. Was I yours?

RICHIE: Hmm, I like to credit Ferris Bueller for that, technically.

EDDIE: “Technically?”

RICHIE: That’s when I realized I didn’t just have a “you” thing. 

EDDIE:  _ (shyly)  _ Oh.  _ (after a beat)  _ You remember all that?

RICHIE: Sort of. It’s like I get flashes of how I felt, more than anything concrete, you know? Like I remember being really scared, but I don’t know why. 

EDDIE:  _ (clearly unsettled)  _ Yeah. Me too. 

[Another long silence.]

EDDIE:  _ (softly)  _ That tickles.

RICHIE: Oh, sorry.

EDDIE: No, don’t stop — here, just move your hand.  _ (the sound of skin shifting against skin)  _ There. That’s nice. 

RICHIE: How is your skin this soft, man, what the hell.

EDDIE:  _ (sleepily)  _ I use a moisturizing body wash. 

RICHIE:  _ (amused hum)  _

EDDIE: It’s important to take care of your skin, you know, especially since we’re both getting older, do you want to be a wrinkled old fuck in ten years? Because if you don’t then you should quit laughing at me and start using a face wash, bitch.

RICHIE:  _ (cracking up)  _ Would you still be into me if I was a wrinkled old fuck, Eds?

EDDIE:  _ (breaking with an amused huff)  _ Yeah, dipshit, I would. Hey, move your phone or it’s gonna fall off the bed in the middle of the night.

RICHIE: Oh, whoops — it’s still recording.

EDDIE: Do  _ not  _ post any of this on the podcast, I swear to god. You don’t need to broadcast our pillow talk.

RICHIE: I’m not gonna! 

[End of audio. Duration: 09:43.]

\---

Richie is standing on a bridge.

The sky is strange, dark as though it’s early evening even though everything seems floodlit, unnaturally bright. Beneath the bridge, Richie can hear the gentle current of the Kenduskeag. He knows this place. A breeze rustles through the leaves.

He can sense that something’s behind him, but instead of being filled with the usual creeping unease, he feels a rush of relief to not be alone. He turns, vaguely surprised that he’s  _ able  _ to turn, and sees Eddie standing there on the bridge, too. He looks just as bemused to see Richie, and after a moment they both share a grin. Maybe this isn’t a nightmare after all, Richie thinks. It can’t be, not with Eddie here.

They move toward each other, and Richie holds out his hand. Eddie takes it, and they lean over the side of the bridge to watch the water moving below, lit up by the strange brightness around them. 

“Where are we?” Eddie asks.

Richie shakes his head. “I forget. But… it’s familiar, right?”

“Yeah.” Eddie looks down at the water, his brow furrowing. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” Richie follows Eddie’s gaze, where the water’s started to get choppier. It churns, starting to swirl in one place, like a tiny whirlpool.

Like a drain.

Filled with a horrible sense of dread, Richie squeezes Eddie’s hand. “Eds, we should move —”

The whirlpool reverses and shoots water upwards like a geyser, and what rains down on the two of them is not the clear current they’d been looking at a moment ago — it’s filthy with sewage, piss and shit and blood all stirred into the stinking tide of greywater that soaks them both. Eddie gags, pulling at Richie’s hand so hard that he nearly dislocates his arm as they stagger away from the railing. Richie’s glasses are covered with the disgusting water, and the stink of it is so intense that he can barely focus on anything else. He loses his grip on Eddie’s hand.

Cold, inhuman laughter echoes all around them as water continues to slosh over the sides of the bridge.  _ “Whatcha scared of, Eds? You’re already sick! Sick little Eddie, all rotted away from the inside out.” _

Richie’s vision is blurry now, but he can still see the way Eddie’s veins turn dark under his skin, black ooze starting to seep from his pores, and Eddie screams. Richie starts to yell Eddie’s name, but his mouth floods with greywater, choking him.

_ “Richie, Richie, oh how I can’t wait to devour  _ you. _ You’ve been scared your whole life, scared someone would look too close and see you for what you really are. You’re the most rotten of them all, and you know why.”  _

Richie can’t breathe, he can’t see, Eddie is gone and all that’s left is the sewer and the voice and the sick laughter ringing in his skull.

_ “Come home,”  _ the voice rasps, and then it starts to scream.  _ “Come home come home COME HOME.”  _

Richie isn’t sure if he wakes up because of the dream or because of Eddie suddenly gripping him, but he’s lurched into full wakefulness in an instant, his eyes snapping open to see Eddie staring right back at him, breathing harshly and looking fucking terrified. They’re nearly nose-to-nose, curled toward each other in the center of the bed, and Eddie’s digging his fingers into Richie’s forearm so hard that his nails are biting into the skin.

“Did we just —?” Richie starts, the question so fucking ridiculous that he can’t even bring himself to ask it. Eddie, after another moment of just mouth-breathing and shivering, nods. “We’re  _ sharing dreams  _ now?! What kind of fucking Leo DiCaprio bullshit,” Richie says. 

“The closer we are to Derry, the more powerful it gets,” Eddie says hoarsely. 

“What the fuck  _ is  _ it,” Richie says, shifting so he can kick off the covers. They’re soaked in both his and Eddie’s sweat now, anyway, and not the good kind. Everything stinks of the cold sweat of fear. “Do you remember?”

Eddie shakes his head. He’s still holding onto Richie, but his grip loosens somewhat. Richie’s probably going to have crescent moon indentations in his skin, but he doesn’t care. “Not yet, it’s all still so fuzzy. But whatever that thing is, it  _ wants  _ us to go to Derry.”

Richie shuffles to sit up, frowning. “So maybe we shouldn’t.” 

“I don’t think it’s going to stop,” Eddie says. “If we turn around, we’re still going to have the nightmares and shit. Rich, you’ve barely been sleeping, and if it gets worse…” He chews on his bottom lip. “We don’t stand a chance against this thing unless we can remember what the fuck it is, and we’re not going to be able to do that unless we go back to Derry.”

“So we go, we figure out what it is, and we  _ somehow  _ figure out how the fuck to stop it,” Richie says, his shoulders slumping with resignation. “Easy-fuckin’-peasy.”

\---

VANISHING ACT: SEASON 3 – DERRY

MINI-EPISODE #2

Publish Date: August 2, 2016

[The faint sounds of birdsong and wind. Then, louder and more jarring, the sound of retching.]

EDDIE: Is it already recording? Oh, yep, there it is. Um, we’re just inside the town limits for Derry and Richie made me pull over so he could puke, and then he handed me his phone so I could record it for posterity or some shit.

RICHIE:  _ (from further away)  _ I didn’t say  _ that,  _ I said talk about what just happened!

EDDIE: I just did! 

RICHIE: I meant the memories, fucknut.

EDDIE: Oh. Right. Well, the closer we got to Derry, the more weird memory flashes we were both having. And as soon as we drove past the “Welcome to Derry” sign, it was like — it was like the airport again, like being hit by a goddamn truck. And we — or at least  _ I  _ remembered that there were more of us, like, we had a whole group of friends, and I remembered…  _ (hesitates)  _ I remembered what we were all afraid of.  _ (pauses again) _

RICHIE:  _ (voice getting closer)  _ See, this is why  _ I’m  _ the podcaster, is this supposed to be a dramatic pause? You have terrible timing. 

EDDIE: Oh  _ excuse _ me for not trusting your judgement, Mr. “The sound of me upchucking is good ambience.” I don’t want to fucking say it, man, people are gonna think we’re crazy!

RICHIE: Eddie baby, we are  _ long  _ past that. 

EDDIE: Okay, fine. It’s a monster, is that what you want me to say? I remembered a fucking — disgusting, rotting monster chasing me, and I don’t remember a whole lot more but I know it’s the thing from my nightmares and it’s fucking real. 

RICHIE: Huh. That’s — that’s not what I remembered it being. It was more like a…

EDDIE:  _ (cutting him off, sounding like he’s just come to an unsettling realization)  _ …A clown? 

RICHIE: Yeah.

EDDIE:  _ Fuck. _

RICHIE: That’s right, ladies and germs, the creature of our deepest darkest nightmares is a killer clown!  _ (huffs out a humorless laugh)  _ God, I wish this was a fucking joke. 

EDDIE:  _ (softly)  _ Hey, are you good? D’you need some water or something?

RICHIE:  _ (jokingly)  _ Got a stiff drink?  _ (after a beat)  _ Nah, I’m good. We should just — get going, right?  _ (in a British accent)  _ Pip-pip and tally-ho, my dear Eds!

EDDIE:  _ (startled laugh)  _ Oh fuck, is that the British Guy? Shit, you used to piss me off with that all the time. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you actually improved. 

RICHIE:  _ (still doing the accent)  _ Thank you kindly, my good sir!  _ (morphing into an Irish accent)  _ Top o’ the mornin’ to ya and all that.

EDDIE: Okay, you’re losing it. C’mon, asshole, back in the car. 

[Clip ends.] 

[Audio cuts in again, this time with the sound of the car driving along a bumpy road. Muffled swearing, and the sound of the radio being turned down.] 

RICHIE: We’re driving along the main street in Derry right now, it’s about two in the afternoon. Eds, how would you describe our old hometown?

EDDIE:  _ (breaking off from his muttered string of expletives)  _ A shithole. 

RICHIE: Eloquent as ever, thank you. You’re not wrong, though. Folks, this place looks exactly like it did in the ’80s, poorly paved roads and all. We’re also here in time for the annual summer festival, wow, remember this shit?

EDDIE:  _ (snorts)  _ I remember you making me go on that rickety-ass ferris wheel every year.

RICHIE: Yeah, you’d hide your face in my shoulder the whole time, you big baby.

EDDIE: It was very high up!  _ (sound of his hand smacking the steering wheel)  _ You think those hunks of junk have adequate safety codes? I mean, sure, maybe  _ now  _ they’re a little better — although honestly I fucking doubt it, I’ve driven past those pop-up carnivals recently and they always look like a fucking lawsuit waiting to happen — but back then? They slapped that shit together overnight and I’m supposed to just be okay with dangling from a little wooden seat like two hundred and sixty feet in the air?! 

RICHIE:  _ (cracking up)  _ Why’d you even go on it with me, then? 

EDDIE: Don’t act like you don’t know exactly why. 

RICHIE:  _ (embarrassed)  _ Really? Even back then? I — hang on.

[Clip ends.] 

\---

The Derry Townhouse is basically empty when Richie and Eddie arrive, which makes Richie feel silly for having called ahead that morning. The lobby is musty, and the air tastes like a thin layer of dust has settled on every surface. How often does this place get visitors? How is the Townhouse even still in business? The lone employee stands behind the desk, a rack of keys above her head. She looks up from picking at her cuticles when the sound of Eddie’s rolling suitcase signals their approach.

“Uh, hi,” Richie says, leaning on the counter. “I called earlier to reserve a room, under Tozier?” 

The woman hums, flipping through a mostly blank stack of papers on a clipboard. “Richard?” she asks. She pulls a key off the rack and holds it out. “B18, second floor.” 

“Thanks,” Richie says, taking the key. He turns to Eddie, about to offer to carry his bag up the stairs, when the woman speaks again.

“And you, sir? Did you need to book a room?”

Eddie glances quickly at Richie before saying, “Oh — no, I’m with him.”

The woman’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. Her tone is the same unaffected monotone when she says, “But there’s only one bed in that room.” Her gaze slides from Eddie to Richie, and he can feel her eyes boring right into his chest, where the squirming, rotten pit of shame lives inside him. He opens his mouth slightly to speak, but he suddenly has no idea what to say. 

He remembers, abruptly — being in the arcade in town, a kid screaming  _ faggot  _ at him and chasing him out; walking down the halls at school and feeling everyone’s eyes on him, hearing whispers about the infamous graffiti in the girl’s bathroom; being terrified that  _ Eddie  _ would hear about it and never look him in the eye again. 

He shudders without meaning to, and he can feel Eddie watching him, tracking the movement. He drops his gaze to the key, and then looks back at the woman, who is still regarding him coolly. She  _ knows,  _ he thinks miserably. 

“We’ve got lots of availability right now,” she says pointedly. “Maybe you’d like to switch out to a room with two twins?” 

“Yes,” Richie says quickly. Anything to get her to stop looking at him, anything to get out of this situation so he can freak out about it literally anywhere else. “That’s fine, that’s — sure.”

She takes his key back and hands him a different one. “B27,” she says, pointing up the stairs. “Enjoy your stay.” 

“Thank you,” Richie says distractedly. Eddie is eyeing him, clearly concerned, but he just follows Richie as he practically books it up the stairs, all chivalrous thoughts of carrying Eddie’s bag forgotten. 

The number of people Richie’s out to is incredibly small. He came out to Steve mostly on accident, after a conversation about why Richie’s “girlfriend” jokes weren’t really  _ landing  _ where Richie had blurted irritably, “Well maybe it’d help if I actually  _ liked  _ women.” Steve seems set on not bringing it up again unless Richie does, and Richie is set on  _ never _ bringing it up, ever. Besides that, anyone who knows is an anonymous hookup or the two brief friends-with-benefits situations Richie had in his early thirties. 

And now Eddie, he supposes. Though Richie hasn’t actually said anything very concrete. Eddie said he was gay, when they were talking the night before, and Richie obviously acknowledged he himself wasn’t straight, but he has no idea what Eddie’s assuming. Maybe he remembers the graffiti and the rumors, too. Richie doesn’t know if Eddie ever heard about it — he never brought it up back then, if he did. 

It takes Richie three tries to unlock the door with his shaky hands. Eddie follows him inside and shuts the door gently behind them. He grabs Richie carefully by the elbow, like he’s dealing with a frightened, feral animal.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks.

Richie sighs. He looks around at the room, the two rickety twin beds with a nightstand in between them. They can sleep like the couples used to on TV in the fifties. How fucking quaint. 

“Rich?” Eddie presses.

“This place really  _ hasn’t  _ changed,” Richie mutters. “Did you see the way she was looking at m— at us?” 

Eddie’s brow furrows. “I guess so.” His hand moves up and down Richie’s arm, a soothing motion, and his fingers slip under the sleeve of Richie’s button-up and stroke the bare skin of his bicep underneath. “I mean, we could stay somewhere else?” 

Richie huffs out a laugh. “Pretty sure there  _ is  _ nowhere else, Eds, not unless we leave town.” He turns so Eddie’s hand slides out of his shirtsleeve, pulling him into a loose, one-armed embrace instead. “It’s fine. We’ll just push the beds together or something. Or we can get real cozy in one. Bet we’d both fit if we spoon.”

Eddie snorts. “With your gangly-ass limbs? Unlikely.” He tips his head so his temple is resting against Richie’s shoulder. “So what do we do now?” 

“Would you call me crazy if I said I want to go find the sewer tunnel?”

Eddie pulls back to stare at him incredulously. “The one from your fucking nightmares? Why the fuck would we go there?”

Richie shrugs helplessly. “I don’t love it either, Eds, but I don’t know where else to start! I still barely remember jackshit about this place or the fucking…  _ clown  _ we’re supposed to be figuring out how to fight. So if going there’s gonna jog our memories, I think we kinda have to, right?” 

Eddie opens his mouth to argue, his face all scrunched up with ire, and then he groans. “I hate that I agree with you. I hate everything about this.” 

“Aw, c’mon, Eds, it’ll be fun! Who doesn’t love splashing around in shitty water?” 

\---

[Audio cuts in to the sound of running water and two pairs of feet tromping through a shallow stream.]

EDDIE: Agh!

RICHIE: What, what’s wrong?

EDDIE: A fucking — bug flew in my face! 

RICHIE:  _ (sighs)  _ Can we agree on no yelling unless we see something of the murder clown variety, please? You’re gonna give me a heart attack.  _ (clears throat)  _ Listeners, we’re currently just about ankle deep in a very shallow part of the Kenduskeag stream, in what us locals call the Barrens.  _ (pause)  _ Well, that’s what we called it back  _ then,  _ I guess I don’t know if people still call it that. You think kids still come and play down here?

EDDIE:  _ (grimly)  _ It’s not like we actually came down here to  _ play.  _

RICHIE: Touché. Anyway,  _ (putting on an old-timey weatherman voice)  _ it’s a lovely summer day down here in the Barrens, and the storm sewer smells just  _ delightful,  _ wouldn’t you say, Eds? The sweet perfume of mildew, piss, and shit. 

EDDIE:  _ (gags)  _

RICHIE:  _ (in his normal voice)  _ This really is bizarre, it’s — it’s exactly like my dream. Less, uh,  _ vibrant,  _ I guess. There’s the tunnel, though, and the trees hanging over it. Why  _ did  _ we come down here as kids, do you remember?

EDDIE: We… we were looking for something, right? 

RICHIE: I think so. Or someone.

EDDIE: Ugh, this is giving me the fucking creeps. You know, I meant to tell you before — I read some more about that Bowers kid, about the day he was arrested.

RICHIE: Oh yeah?

EDDIE: He was gone when the cops found his dad’s bled-out corpse in the living room, but he showed up at the house when they were wheeling the body out. And Bowers — the kid, not his dad — was covered in blood and dirt and shit, and he said later that he came out of the sewers. That he got washed out of one of the tunnels and into the stream.

RICHIE:  _ (nervously)  _ Like this tunnel, for example? What the fuck was he doing in the sewers, how’d he get washed out like that?

EDDIE: He — fuck. Rich, was he…  _ there?  _ With us? When we did… whatever the fuck we did? I still don’t remember. But he was, wasn’t he?

RICHIE: Holy shit. Yeah. Henry fuckin’ Bowers. Didn’t someone push him down a well? 

EDDIE: Oh my god, that’s right. What the fuck. How did he even  _ survive  _ that? The fall alone… not to mention being flooded out of one of these, how did he not drown? 

[There is a tense silence. Then the sound of sloshing water is cut through with an abrupt clattering against the cement walls of the storm sewer tunnel.]

RICHIE:  _ (yelps)  _ What’d you do that for?!

EDDIE: I don’t know, I felt like something was in there watching us.

RICHIE: So you threw a rock at it?

EDDIE:  _ (sputtering)  _ I — well — yeah! I don’t know!  _ (pause)  _ Hey, do you… do you see that? 

RICHIE: See what?

EDDIE: Up there, on the slope up to the road. Back where we left the car. 

RICHIE: Is… is that —? 

EDDIE: Holy shit.

[…]

\---

Richie watches, with a morbid sort of fascination, as the figure makes its way rapidly closer to them from the top of the hill. He and Eddie are standing in the stream only a few feet from the mouth of the tunnel, and the figure is still far enough away that it’s hard to make out many features, but the person has definitely seen them, and is  _ definitely  _ running right for them.

The sun is hot enough to make sweat bead up on the back of Richie’s neck, but he still feels a chill go through him as he starts to make out some details about the figure. It seems to be a man, and he’s wearing some kind of — prison uniform or something. He’s a big guy, hard to tell just how tall but definitely broad,  _ strong. _ He’s got a mullet. He appears to be holding a knife. 

He’s shouting incomprehensibly, and as he barrels ever closer, Richie hears him bellow,  _ “I’m gonna gut you fucking fairies!”  _ And suddenly,  _ oh,  _ Richie has a name for the face of the kid who chased him out of the arcade almost three decades ago.

Henry fuckin’ Bowers. 

“Eddie,” Richie says, not taking his eyes off Bowers’ approaching form. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

“Yeah, no shit!” Eddie says, his voice an octave or two higher than usual. “What — where —”

Richie looks around quickly, his heart starting to hammer so hard in his chest he’s getting nauseous. He feels fucking thirteen again, Bowers shoving him into the dirt outside of school and spitting on his face, pushing the heel of his boot against Richie’s cheek and sneering  _ freak, homo, I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna rip your fucking balls off.  _ His eyes fall on the mouth of the sewer tunnel. The yawning opening beckons to him. He shivers, and then points. “In there.”

Eddie’s eyes bug out of his skull. “Are you  _ fucking kidding me —”  _

“No time to argue!” Richie exclaims. He grabs Eddie by the wrist and drags him forward, splashing through the water and into the cool dank air of the tunnel. It’s like a fucking black hole, like the light can’t penetrate further than a couple feet inside. Richie shivers again. They keep running, the water higher than their ankles now and — and fucking  _ chunky,  _ which is disgusting. Eddie has one hand pressed tightly over his mouth and nose, the other being held captive by Richie. They just keep going, deeper inside, and the sound of their legs kicking up water is definitely  _ not  _ quiet. If Bowers is chasing them inside he’s gonna have an easy time finding them. 

They come up on a split in the tunnel, where it branches off in two directions. They skid to a stop, looking from left to right.

“Eddie,” Richie says, slightly out of breath, “you’re gonna hate this, but I think we should split up.”

“What the fuck,” Eddie says flatly. “Is that a fucking joke?”

“No, listen,” Richie says, glancing behind them. He can barely see the mouth of the tunnel anymore. Everything is so dark. Richie never thought he was afraid of the dark, but he’s quickly being proven wrong. “Listen to me, Eds, if we split up — he can’t chase both of us, right? It’s, it’s safer this way.”  _ And he’ll come after me,  _ Richie doesn’t say.  _ He’ll come after me because he always hated me more, Eds, don’t you get it? He knows what I am and he knows I held his cousin’s hand a second too long, he wants to rip my fucking balls off, so you’ll be fine. You’ll be safer on your own. _

Eddie is shaking his head frantically. “Nuh-uh. No way. What the fuck are we supposed to do if he  _ does  _ come after one of us?”

“Scream real loud,” Richie says, offering a rictus grin. 

“You are un-fucking-believable,” Eddie mutters. He spins in a little circle, setting off ripples in the disgusting water. Then he bends down, pulling something from the shallows. Richie frowns, squinting in the dark, and Eddie whips around and brandishes a fucking tree branch, as long and thick as his arm. It was sticking up out of the water, so Eddie’s got a hold on the dry end, the other end jagged and dripping with god knows what. Richie’s reminded vividly of standing back in the mouth of the tunnel so many years ago, brandishing wet garbage on the end of a stick and tossing it at Eddie, who shrieked and cursed him out in the way Richie always reveled in.

Oh, how things change. 

“You better fucking shout if he comes after you,” Eddie says seriously. “I fucking mean it, Rich.” 

“I will,” Richie promises. “Your choice, Eds, left or right?”

Eddie shakes his head and starts for the right side. “If he doesn’t show up in the next ten minutes we’re fucking leaving,” he says, and then he’s turning the corner and out of sight, brandishing his stick like it’s a sword. Richie’s whole chest aches watching him go.

He turns toward the left tunnel. He waits for a moment, listening. He can hear Eddie sloshing through the deeper water in the other tunnel. He can’t hear anything from behind him. Not yet. Swallowing the bile in his throat, Richie starts wading into the left tunnel. 

The water goes deep — up to his knees by the time he’s walked three feet — and it stinks so bad he can  _ taste  _ it in the back of his throat. It’s so fucking dark. He gropes for the slimy cold of the tunnel wall, and then takes a few shaky breaths. Then he remembers he has his fucking cell phone in the front pocket of his shirt, and he can use the fucking flashlight,  _ duh.  _ He pulls it out and flips it over to unlock the screen.

His voice memo app is still recording away. “Oh, shit,” he mutters. Then, he shrugs to himself. Might as well have a clear record for the cops when they find his gutted corpse in here, right? He turns on the flashlight app and then lifts his phone closer to his mouth.

\---

[Audio cuts in to a sloshing sound, and the drippy noises that come from damp caves — or sewer tunnels. RICHIE is breathing like he’s just run a marathon, loud and out through his mouth. He clears his throat.]

RICHIE: In case any cops want a detailed description of my upcoming murder, my name is Richie Tozier and I was probably drawn and quartered right here in this sewer by escaped convict and known Tozierphobe, Henry Bowers.  _ (weak laugh)  _ Ohhh, I am so fucked. This is so  _ fucked.  _

[More sloshing — RICHIE is on the move.] 

RICHIE: On the off chance that I  _ don’t _ get murdered right now, an update for my intrepid listeners — I have entered the goddamn Twilight Zone. The Derry sewer system is a fucking alternate dimension It smells fuckin’  _ ripe  _ in here, y’all. And it’s dark as  _ shit.  _ My flashlight’s barely making a difference. Fuck, I hope Eddie had his phone on him.  _ (quieter)  _ I hope he’s okay.

[A few moments of quiet, save for the sound of the water. Then, from somewhere far off, the sound of shouting. EDDIE is calling out, indistinctly.]

RICHIE: Oh fuck. Eds?! 

EDDIE: Richie.

RICHIE:  _ (shrieks)  _ What the — Jesus fucking Christ, dude! Don’t fucking sneak up on me like that, how’d you even — I didn’t even hear you coming over here, weren’t you just yelling?

EDDIE: Maybe you should pay attention instead of talking to yourself, asshole.

RICHIE:  _ (laughs shakily)  _ Okay, whatever, man. Are you okay? Did — did you hear Bowers or something? 

EDDIE: No. He’s not in here. 

RICHIE: Right, okay. Well that’s good, I guess, I… whoa. What’s up with your eyes, dude?

EDDIE:  _ (calmly)  _ My eyes? 

RICHIE: Uhhh. Never mind. I thought I saw — huh. The lighting in this place is fucking with me.

EDDIE: What lighting? It’s all dark down here, Richie. 

RICHIE: Yeah, you’re telling me. Look, let’s just get out of here, man —

[The sound of movement, quickly stopped. RICHIE makes a startled huff.]

RICHIE: Dude, what are you doing? Don’t you want to get out of here?

EDDIE: Maybe we should walk a little further. See where it goes. Have you remembered anything else since we came in here?

RICHIE:  _ (hesitantly)  _ Uh, some — some stuff about Bowers, yeah. He. Uh. I’ll tell you about it later, okay? When we’re outside in daylight, maybe? 

[A noise cuts off his words — someone is calling his name again from further down the tunnel.]

[It’s EDDIE.]

RICHIE:  _ (fearfully)  _ What the fuck? Eddie?

EDDIE:  _ (singsong)  _ Uh-oh.

\---

Richie stares at Eddie, who is still holding onto Richie’s wrist with clammy fingers, stopping him from moving back the way they came, back down the tunnel, and his eyes flash again like they had before, glinting green-gold and reflective like a cat’s. He’s smiling, but it’s not a nice smile. It’s not  _ Eddie’s  _ smile. 

It’s not, Richie now unfortunately understands,  _ Eddie  _ at all. 

“Richie, Richie, Richie,” not-Eddie says, smile curling into something crueler. “You’re just too easy to trick. I shoulda pulled this one on you twenty-seven years ago, wouldn’t  _ that  _ have been a hoot. You would’ve really loved it then, wouldn’t you, Richie? If little Eddie came into the clubhouse and touched your hand and then snapped it right off?” Not-Eddie’s grip tightens on his wrist, and Richie thinks again  _ he’s strong,  _ but it’s not a sexy thought like it was last night — no, now he’s thinking that Eddie’s strong but whatever this  _ thing  _ is could be even stronger. Could Eddie snap his wrist? Could Eddie rip his hand clean off? All they found of little Ed Corcoran was his hand, Richie read that in one of the police records, is that all they’ll find of Richie? His hand floating, bloated and bloodless, among the rest of the Derry trash? 

“I —” Richie says, his mouth working soundlessly. He should break free, should punch this fucking creep in the face, except he  _ can’t.  _ Because it’s Eddie’s face, and Richie — Richie can’t hurt him. And this thing knows it, too.

“Time to float, Richie,” not-Eddie says in a horrible, gravelly voice, and Richie’s mind explodes with the name  _ Pennywise _ and then —

And then, something comes  _ cracking  _ down on not-Eddie’s head once, twice, so hard that it fucking dents in a little, and his eyes go big and blank. Blood trickles in a line down the middle of his face, and then his face starts to crack, a fissure opening up along the same trail as the blood, until not-Eddie’s whole head splits down the middle and falls apart. His body disintegrates into dust before it can even hit the water.

Behind him, holding a now-bloodied branch like it’s a baseball bat, is Eddie. He’s shaking all over with some combination of terror and rage, and they both stare at each other in the dim light of Richie’s phone flashlight before Richie turns away to puke. 

“Dude,” Eddie says, sounding mildly dismayed, but Richie holds up a hand to silence him. He retches a couple more times before wiping his mouth shakily with the back of his wrist. Then he straightens up and points a finger at Eddie.

“Don’t say anything,” he says. “Let me look at your eyes.”

“My fucking — okay?” Eddie says, clearly baffled. He lowers the branch slightly. Richie holds his phone up to Eddie’s face and beams the flashlight into one of his eyes, and Eddie yelps and scrunches his whole face up. “Dude, what the fuck! You’re fucking blinding me, dickwad!”

Eddie’s eyes do not reflect the light like a cat. They are, so far as Richie can tell, entirely human and normal. He sags with relief, letting out something that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob. Eddie stops squinting and cussing at him and drops the branch into the water, stepping forward to touch Richie’s arm. 

“What the fuck was that thing?” Eddie says warily, glancing back at the spot where the not-Eddie stood before. 

“Does the name Pennywise ring a bell to you?” Richie asks. He doesn’t even need to finish his sentence — as soon as he says “Pennywise,” Eddie goes rigid. “Yeah, pretty sure that was him. Even worse than I fucking remembered. Side note, did you just fucking kill him?”

“Holy fucking shit,” Eddie says. He shakes his head slightly. “No, no, I don’t think so. We like — we beat the shit out of him before, when we were kids, didn’t we? With like, chains and — and your fucking baseball bat, and shit. And he survived that.”

“Shit, you’re right,” Richie says. He scrubs a hand over his face. “So, what, you bonked him on the head and he just decided to bounce? Why not finish the job right now?”

Eddie squints up at him. “I don’t know, but let’s be fucking grateful he didn’t,” he says. “Why the hell did you wander back this far? It’s been way more than ten minutes, I was calling for you.” 

“Yeah, I… I don’t know,” Richie says, suddenly a bit frightened again. “I just kept walking.” 

“Let’s get out of here,” Eddie says. “You think Bowers is waiting for us?”

Richie shakes his head. “No idea, man. I hope not.” 

Eddie’s hand slides down Richie’s arm until he can twine their fingers together. “Anything’s better than whatever the fuck just happened,” he says. 

Together, they wade their way out of the tunnel and back out into the blinding sunlight of the Barrens. There’s no sign of Henry Bowers, or anyone else for that matter. Richie’s starting to wonder if Bowers was just a hallucination to force them into the tunnels. He’ll have to listen back to the voice memo audio to see if it even picked anything up. For now, he pulls his phone out and finally stops the recording. 

“Ugh, oh my god, disgusting,” Eddie says, looking down at himself. His pants are sopping wet and streaked with filth from the mid-thigh down. “Ohhh my god, this is so fucking nasty. I’m gonna have to burn these.” He gags a little. “We  _ reek,  _ dude, we’re gonna stink up the car.” 

“Eau de Pennywise,” Richie says, giggling. Adrenaline is making him feel stupider than usual. He really, really thought he was about to die in there. 

Eddie swats him. “Shut up, shut up, we need to get in the car so I can shower immediately. Oh my god.” 

\---

**8 missed calls from: Steve 👎**

**5 new voicemails**

**15 unread messages from: Steve 👎**

\---

After they’ve cleaned up and changed, Richie suggests they check out the festival. Eddie is reluctant at first, but Richie’s had enough fucking sleuthing and near-death experiences for one afternoon. It’s nearly sundown, and anywhere they could snoop around would only be an absolute nightmare to explore after dark. So they make their way down to the bustling crowd, the rides and carnival games and the sugary smell of cotton candy. It makes Richie feel like a kid again, dragging Eddie along by the wrist and trying to win him stupid prizes. 

They’re both too wary to hold hands now, but Eddie’s fingers keep brushing the back of Richie’s hand, deliberate, and it makes Richie grin. Eddie has a secret little smile tucked into the corners of his mouth, and Richie wants to kiss him. 

When they were kids, Richie used to dream about kissing Eddie at the top of the ferris wheel. They’d be so high up in the air, hidden from any prying eyes, a safe haven in their little swinging seat for just a few moments. When it came down to it, though, Richie was always still too chicken. Instead he’d just let Eddie hide his face against Richie’s shoulder, and he’d pet Eddie’s hair in a way that he could brush off as mocking when they were back in the real world, down on the ground. 

Richie wishes he had a clearer memory of their other friends. He misses them right now, standing in the middle of the fairground and watching a group of twelve-year-old boys run past, shoving each other and wearing those ugly as fuck beaver-themed “I ❤ Derry” hats. 

Richie elbows Eddie, mostly for an excuse to touch him. “Hey, Eds, want me to buy you a corn dog?”

Eddie’s nose crinkles up in disgust. “Fuck no, not unless you want me to shit my pants, like, immediately.” 

“What? It’s corn, it doesn’t even have gluten! I googled that shit!”

“Do you even know what’s in hot dogs, Richie? Do you?”

“Uh, no.”

“Exactly! That’s fucking nasty, you should never eat something if you don’t know what the ingredients are!”

Richie sighs theatrically and starts heading in the direction of the ferris wheel. “One of these days, Eddie, I’m going to make you eat processed junk food again. You’ll love it, I promise.” 

They’re just passing the bridge, the one that goes over a deeper section of the Kenduskeag, when Eddie stops and taps Richie on the arm. Richie turns, following Eddie’s gaze.

There’s a couple — two guys. They’re maybe mid-twenties, walking close and touchy-feely and everything Richie wishes he wasn’t too chickenshit to do with Eddie right now. At first, he thinks Eddie’s just pointing out the presence of some fellow gays out in the wild of Derry, but then he sees what Eddie must really be looking at — the group of three guys and a middle-schooler, very clearly tailing the couple and looking downright fucking  _ nasty  _ about it. __

Richie’s heart lurches into his throat. He wants to hightail it out of there. He doesn’t want to see what’s about to happen. He looks at Eddie, who is staring up at him with wide, panicked eyes.

“We should tell someone,” Eddie hisses frantically. “There’s gotta be like, cops around, right? Or security? We have to — we can’t let those assholes hurt those guys.”

Richie looks into Eddie’s frightened face, and he sees the same heartbreaking goddamn cow eyes of the kid Richie’d mouth off to bullies to protect, the kid he felt so much for that he risked his neck just to carve their fucking initials onto the Kissing Bridge. He would’ve given anything to be able to see a future where he could hold Eddie close in public and not be terrified that someone would beat the shit out of him.  _ We can’t let them get hurt like we got hurt,  _ is what Eddie’s really saying.

Richie smiles, a sad little smile, and squares his shoulders. “You’re right,” he says. “We can’t.” And then he starts power-walking over toward the bridge, where the little group of homophobes has almost caught up to the couple.

“Hey,” Richie says sharply, his voice coming out stronger than he expected. He’s taller than these guys, not by a lot, but enough that it’s noticeable. He hears Eddie coming up behind him, feels him standing at his side. 

One of the assholes, who looks to be the leader of the pack, turns to stare at him with a furious sneer. A little ways ahead on the bridge, the couple has also turned around, and Richie catches the alarmed look from the taller of the two. 

“The fuck do you want?” Asshole #1 says, his lip curling. He looks from Richie to Eddie and spits, “This your little boyfriend, you big fucking freak?” 

Richie sets his jaw. These pieces of shit aren’t Bowers, and Richie isn’t in middle school anymore. The gay couple is watching him, and there’s a spark of something in the shorter one’s eyes. Something like defiance. It burns in Richie’s chest, reminds him the look Eddie would get sometimes when they were kids, before he did something really brave. He holds that inside him, lets it fill him up, as he stares the would-be gay bashers down. “Yeah, he is. You got a fucking problem with that, pal?”

“Yeah we’ve got a fuckin’ problem!” snarls the middle schooler. “We don’t want freaks like you in our town!”

“Funny, because we were both born here before any of you were even figments of your mother’s nightmares,” Eddie interjects, and Richie almost fucking _laughs._ Eddie Spaghetti gets off a good one, goddamn. “So I’m pretty sure that makes it _our_ town.”

“You threatening us?” Asshole #1 pipes up again. “You think we’re scared of a couple homos?”

“Maybe not,” Richie concedes, his voice steady and casual even though his heart is jackhammering in his throat. “But  _ this _ homo —” he points at himself — “happens to be a hotshot in Hollywood, and I’ve got  _ lawyers.  _ So if you wanna get your asses locked up and sued for everything you own because you wanted to beat up the gay comedian, hey, that’s on you. But if it were me? I wouldn’t risk it.” He makes a show of pulling out his phone and moving to make a call.

“C’mon, man, it’s not worth it,” one of the other assholes in the pack whispers. Their leader glares for another long moment, and Richie really does push the button to call Steve, and then, right as it starts to ring, the guy gives in. 

“Fuck you,” he says, shoulder-checking Richie as he leads his creep friends and the kid away, back toward the festivities. Richie sneakily ends the call on his phone before Steve can pick up.

“Have a nice night!” calls the shorter of the couple from the bridge, and Richie laughs ruefully. The kid’s got guts. Richie’s just glad he didn’t have to see those guts get kicked right out of him.

Richie and Eddie approach the couple, who meet them in the middle. 

“Um, thank you,” the taller one says. “That was — I don’t see that a lot around here. The helping someone out part, I mean.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Richie says. His hands are shaking. Eddie must notice, because he grabs one of them in both of his own. 

The shorter man tracks the movement, and then looks up at them and grins, his eyes flashing bright and defiant again. He’s wearing one of the beaver hats, and he flicks at the brim as he tilts up his head. “I’m Adrian,” he says. “And that’s Don, my boyfriend.”

“Eddie,” Eddie says. “This is my — Richie.” He side-eyes Richie for a moment, smiling.

“Hey, you’re not Richie  _ Tozier,  _ are you?” Don says then. “From that podcast?”

Richie barks a laugh. “Uh, yeah, I am.”

“Holy shit!” Don exclaims. He elbows Adrian. “It’s the guy I was telling you about the other night. Fuck, and you’re Eddie. Wow.”

“Apparently the internet ships you two,” Adrian says. “Did you know that?”

Richie  _ did  _ know that, as a matter of fact. He’s pointedly never brought it up to Eddie. “Ha! What? Wow. Who knew? Wild,” he says, like a complete idiot. Eddie side-eyes him again. “Anyway, we’ve gotta get going — do you guys have a ride home? Just in case those dicks come back for round two.”

“My car’s right up here,” Adrian says, pointing to the other side of the bridge. He pauses, then says, “Thanks again. Gotta have each other’s backs in a shithole like this, huh?”

“Yeah,” Richie says. Eddie squeezes his hand again. “Stay safe, alright?”

“You too,” Don agrees. They wave, and Richie and Eddie stay there on the bridge watching until Don and Adrian, arm-in-arm, are out of sight.

\---

[Audio cuts in to the faint sounds of a crowd, carnival music and children shrieking.]

RICHIE: Well, folks, after some careful investigation, I can safely say that the summer festival here in Derry is  _ not  _ as fun as when we were kids.

EDDIE: Why do you say that? 

RICHIE: Well first of all, neither of us ate cotton candy ’til we puked. I didn’t cheat to win you any prizes, and I didn’t get to see you inexplicably kick ass at the frog bog game. Major downgrades. Also, I had to yell at homophobes.

EDDIE: I don’t know, I thought that was a nice change of pace. You know, instead of being the ones  _ they _ yelled at?

RICHIE:  _ (snorts)  _ Yeah, okay, I’ll take that. 

[A buzzing noise.]

RICHIE: Oh, shit — Carole’s calling me. The librarian? Quick, get out your phone and record, I’m gonna put it on speaker — hurry up, man! 

[Audio cuts out briefly, and returns to the sound of buzzing again that’s abruptly cut off.]

RICHIE: Go for Richie and Eddie. 

CAROLE:  _ (muffled over the phone)  _ Hi, Mr. Tozier? This is Carole from the Derry Public Library. I have someone here who wants to talk to you. 

RICHIE: Oh, um, okay?

[Shuffling, and then a new voice.]

MAN: Richie? This is Mike. Mike Hanlon.

RICHIE: Mike…  _ (sharp inhale, followed by a shaky laugh)  _ Oh, holy fucking shit,  _ Mike.  _ Oh, wow. Hey, man.

MIKE:  _ (amused)  _ Hey, Richie. Did I hear you say Eddie’s there too?

EDDIE:  _ (sounding dazed)  _ Hi, Mike. 

MIKE: God, it’s good to hear your voices. Listen, guys, I — I fucked up.

RICHIE: What’re you talking about?

MIKE:  _ (sighs)  _ Something happens when you leave Derry. Not to everyone — just to us.

EDDIE:  _ (quietly)  _ We forget.

MIKE: Yes. When we were kids, and all of you guys started moving away, I figured out pretty quick that once you go, you don’t remember and you don’t come back. And I don’t — I don’t blame you at all. You didn’t know. And you deserved to get out of Derry. But I knew someone had to stay, just… just in case. So I stayed.

RICHIE:  _ (distressed)  _ Mike, I’m —

MIKE: It’s okay. You didn’t know. But listen, while I was here, I started doing research. Digging into the history of the town, you know, talking to people, keeping tabs, just in case… I knew it only happened every twenty-seven years, I knew I just had to hang on until then, and then I’d know for sure. I was doing all this research to try and find out how to stop It. 

RICHIE: Capital-i “It”?

MIKE: Yeah. You remember?

RICHIE: I fuckin’ do now. So, wait, did you find out? How to stop It?

MIKE:  _ (sadly)  _ No. I’m sorry. I was trying, but then I got this email about some old book in a library in Boston, it sounded like it could fill in some gaps, help me piece it all together, and I knew it was risky to leave but I thought — I thought I’d just be quick. I’d come back in a couple days, and it would be okay. But as soon as I landed in Boston, I was already forgetting, it happened that fast. I couldn’t remember why I’d come down, or why it was so urgent that I go back home. I started to think it wasn’t so urgent at all. 

And then I thought hey, I’ve never seen Boston. I’ve never seen anywhere. So I spent a year traveling and then I wound up working in a library in Miami and I didn’t think about Derry again until I came across your podcast.

RICHIE:  _ (surprised laugh)  _ No shit? 

MIKE: I heard you talking to Carole and it — it sparked enough of a memory, I knew I had to get back. So I booked the earliest flight I could manage and as soon as I got here, it all started to come back. Carole gave me all my old research and I remember now. I remember everything. 

EDDIE: How long have you been back here?

MIKE: I got in this afternoon, I — wait, did you say  _ here?  _ Are you guys in Derry right now?

RICHIE: Uh,  _ yeah,  _ dude. I thought you said you listened to the podcast?

MIKE: I did! All three episodes, you never said —

RICHIE:  _ (muttering)  _ Fucking  _ Steve  _ took down the episode, goddamn it. You gotta get on Twitter, Mikey, that’s where all the action is these days. 

EDDIE: Not really the point, Rich.

MIKE: So you’re — you’re here. Shit. It’s not safe for you guys to be here, I don’t have a plan yet, and I think It’s really come back. I don’t think It’s dead. There’ve been a couple missing kids recently, not a lot, but enough that I —

EDDIE: Yeah, we already fuckin’ ran into It earlier today. It’s definitely back, Mike.

MIKE: You — what?

RICHIE: Mike, listen, man, we’re not leaving. You said we forget when we leave, what if we forget each other? I’m not starting back from square one, man. The remembering was weird enough the first time, and I don’t —  _ (breaks off, emotional)  _ I don’t wanna forget what’s, uhhh, happened. Recently. 

MIKE: Okay, that’s cryptic. But… you’re right. I don’t really want you to leave, either. It’s been a long time, and I — I missed you guys.

RICHIE:  _ (sniffling)  _ Fuck, shut up, man. We miss you, too. And look, I know you feel bad about it, but I’m glad you got out of this shithole for a little while. You deserve it, too.

MIKE: Thanks, Rich.  _ (slow exhale)  _ Alright, how about this. Come meet me at the library, we’ll figure something out. Carole’s going home but I’ll be here, just text me and I can let you in. And then I gotta make a few calls.

RICHIE: Ooh shit. We gettin’ the gang back together, Mikey?

MIKE:  _ (chuckles)  _ Damn right. It’s time to bring everyone back home. 

[End of episode.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no real easter eggs from this one, except that i did google the bangor airport to attempt to figure out how to describe it and then i gave up. 
> 
> wanna hear what i listen to while writing? here's a [playlist for the fic!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/21OUvr8OZPQrDzQvn186BM?si=cl7x_SiqTGGtCawCoFhfnw)
> 
> as always, pls leave a comment if u so desire! they really make my day! i'm on twitter @hermanngottiieb if you wanna say hi. see you soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello! the third and final part of this story is here. once again, THANK YOU for the support and enthusiasm for this fic, i'm so glad you've found it fun and spooky, it's been a blast to write and to see all your responses. i especially liked the surprise at how earlier richie and eddie got together - i have no patience for slow burn bc i want them to smooch. also eddie fully possessed me to write that sex scene, the man knows what he wants. 
> 
> anyway, CONTENT WARNINGS for this chapter:  
> brief discussions of the following - domestic abuse, parental abuse, internalized homophobia, homophobic language/violence, disordered eating, suicidal thoughts. whew. proceed with caution! <3 
> 
> this chapter includes a fair amount more of traditional prose than the previous two chapters, but there's also a full uncut episode of richie's podcast so i hope you still have fun with the various forms of media. see ya in the end notes!

**Steve 👎**

What’s with the fucking creepshow sewer episode yesterday?

Is this all because I wouldn’t let you audition for that horror film back in 2008?

Because you’ve proven me wrong. You can do horror, I get it.

Great foley work, BTW. Did you record in a real sewer?

You have to answer me eventually, Rich.

How are things with Eddie? You two hook up yet? 

Wow, I thought THAT’D get a response. 

\---

“Why is your manager calling me?” 

Richie glances up to see Eddie holding up his phone, the contact name STEVE HILL (PODCAST) across the screen. He winces. “Uh, if you could do me a huge solid and just hit decline call, that’d be great.”

The two of them are sitting on the floor in the attic of the Derry Public Library, where Mike apparently lived rent-free up until three years ago. After an embarrassingly tearful reunion and several hours spent catching up on each other’s lives, Richie, Eddie, and Mike all sat down with the boxes of research Mike had left behind when he left Derry. It’s the first all-nighter Richie’s pulled in a long time, but considering the fucked-up nightmares he and Eddie have both been having, neither of them complained about working through the night.

It’s very early in the morning now, and Mike is across the attic making phone calls to the rest of their friends while Richie and Eddie continue to sift through notebooks and newspaper clippings and dog-eared books. It feels like college — except Richie never studied this hard in college.

Eddie’s sitting with one leg tucked under him, the other stretched out so that his socked foot rests against Richie’s calf. The casual intimacy of the touch has been making it extremely hard for Richie to focus. He watches as Eddie frowns at his phone before declining Steve’s call. Setting the phone down, Eddie says, “You’re gonna have to talk to him eventually, Richie.”

“Sure, eventually,” Richie concedes. “But right now we have an investigation to finish and a supernatural clown to fight, and I’d really rather get both of those things done before he fires my ass. He can’t fire me if I don’t pick up the phone!”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling like he can’t help himself. They lapse into silence, punctuated by the soft sound of Mike talking to… Richie’s pretty sure it’s Stan, right now. He’s been telling Richie and Eddie who he’s about to call before he does it, and every time it’s like a slap in the face to remember another of their friends.

Remembering Bill Denbrough has been the weirdest so far — a big heaping helping of guilt and wondering how the fuck Bill’s going to react when he remembers Richie and has context for his privacy-invading podcast. If he even shows up. If _any_ of the others do. 

Eddie pulls him out of his thoughts by tapping his foot against Richie’s leg. “Hey, can I ask you something?” he says.

Richie raises his eyebrows. “Pretty sure you just did, but you can ask me another thing, yes.”

Eddie sighs. He fidgets with the corner of the paper he’s supposed to be reading. “At the festival, you told those guys I was your boyfriend.”

Richie blinks at him. “Did I?” he says faintly. All he remembers is Eddie calling _him_ “my Richie,” whatever that meant.

Eddie nods. “Yeah. And, um, I’m not mad or anything, it’s just — we never really talked about — what are we doing here, Rich?” He gestures between the two of them.

Richie’s brain is whirring like a stalled car engine, and since when did he start using car metaphors? What he _wants_ to say is that he’s been in love with Eddie for two and a half years and on top of _that_ he now has an entire childhood’s worth of love swelling in his chest, so they can call it whatever the hell Eddie wants as long as he lets Richie stay with him. But _can_ he say that? Like, physically can he get his mouth to form the words? So far prospects are looking grim.

Clearly sensing Richie’s internal meltdown, Eddie says, “We don’t have to figure it out right now.”

“I’ve never had a boyfriend before,” Richie says, which sounds very pathetic and isn’t what he wanted to say at all, but it’s better than nothing. 

Eddie’s lips twitch, and he looks down at his papers again. “Yeah, me neither.” 

Before either of them can say anything else, Mike walks back over. “Alright, that was the last call. I think they’re all gonna come.” He eases down onto the floor again with a wince. “We are way too old to be sitting on the floor like this. You guys have any luck?”

Eddie shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“I gotta say though, Mikey, your handwriting is fuckin’ gorgeous. Like, this should be a font.” Richie holds up the notebook he’s been reading from. Mike snorts out a laugh and swats the notebook back down. “Also, I’m sorry but it’s been _eating_ at me, man: how in the shit did you get the personal numbers of all our old friends? I mean, Bev and Bill are legit celebrities now, that info’s not exactly public record.”

Mike smiles sheepishly, glancing to the side and rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… I have my ways.”

Richie smacks the notebook down onto his own lap. “Oh my god! I can’t believe both of you ended up being, like, _hackers._ I can barely operate Twitter.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You record and edit your own podcasts, quit acting like you’re inept.”

“Okay, but I don’t know how to access police records and shit.”

“It’s actually not that —” Mike begins, but Eddie waves a frantic, shushing hand at him.

“Don’t tell him anything or I’ll be out of a side gig,” he says, and all three of them crack up. Richie hasn’t felt like this in decades. 

He _really_ hopes they don’t all get clown-murdered.

\---

Stan arrives first, in the early afternoon. He flew up from Georgia, and even as he stands in the lobby of the library, with his forest green cardigan and his reading glasses tucked into the pocket and those same dark, wise-beyond-his-years eyes, Richie can barely believe he’s there. It’s not that he thinks of Stan as a coward — he’s just been remembering over the last several hours how much more shaken Stan was than the rest of them, when it was all over. Richie remembers the bandage wrapped around Stan’s head from where Pennywise had his entire face in Its mouth. It’s enough to make anyone say “no fucking thank you” when invited back into the jaws of hell.

“Stan the Man!” Richie exclaims, flinging his arms wide for a hug. Stan sighs, pretending to be put upon but going easily into Richie’s embrace.

“When the fuck did you get taller than me,” Stan says, patting Richie on the back. Richie pulls away enough to put his hands on Stan’s shoulders and hold him at arm’s length. He looks so much the same, it’s unnerving, like Richie’s slipped back into a half-remembered childhood. Stan smiles slightly. “You know, I listened to your podcast.”

“What, really?” Richie says. He releases his hold on Stan, allowing him to hug Eddie and Mike. 

Stan turns back to him after. “Mike mentioned it, when he called. He said listening to it might — help. I was sort of freaking out at first.” He crosses his arms and then uncrosses them again. “Hearing you and Eddie talking… well, it was just like when we were kids, the way you two act. It did help. I guess it reminded me what I was coming back for.”

“Aww,” Richie teases, hiding the fact that he’s genuinely touched. 

“And actually, my wife heard me listening to one of the episodes and it turns out she’s a fan,” Stan says. He’s wincing, already anticipating the shit-eating grin that’s spreading across Richie’s face.

“She is?” Richie says, delighted.

“Patty’s really into true crime,” Stan explains. “And I guess she… really likes… your impressions,” he adds slowly, sounding vaguely horrified, like with every word he’s remembering more about their childhood. “She…” He sighs. “She wants me to get your autograph.”

Richie laughs so hard he cries. 

He’s still laughing when a voice calls from the doorway, “Oh god, is Richie already t-t-tormenting people?”

Richie whirls around. “I’d know that stutter anywhere!” he says, and Stan thumps him on the arm. Eddie and Mike duck around the two of them to hug Bill, who stands even shorter than Eddie and whose face is line with weariness. When Bill comes up to him, Richie’s lightheartedness falters, and he sticks his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Awkwardly, he says, “Listen, Bill, about the podcast, I’m so —”

Bill holds up a hand to stop him. “I hadn’t even l-listened to it, Rich. My agent got your email and she s-s-sssaid it sounded exploitative, so I let her handle it. I downloaded a b-bunch of episodes for the flight over, though. It’s good stuff. I’m not mm-mad at you.”

And maybe it’s silly, but hearing two of his oldest friends say that they not only listened to his show, but they _liked_ it, is enough to get Richie’s eyes stinging. He beams and pulls Bill into a hug so he can compose himself. 

Ben and Beverly arrive at almost the same time, and the first things Richie notices are that Ben is blushing and Bev has dark bruises on her wrist. He comments on neither, just hugs them both as they all go through the exclaimed greetings and “you look just the same!” song and dance for the third time that afternoon. 

It feels surreal — not like a high school reunion, where you fall back into step with the vague memories of who you were ten, fifteen, twenty years ago when you saw these people last. No, this feels like the past twenty-seven years have melted away — the bond never faded, never aged, it was just on pause until right now, and they’re all just as tethered together as they were at thirteen. 

When they’ve settled down again, everyone turns expectantly to Mike. He ushers them all up to the attic. 

“How much do you remember?” Mike asks, when the seven of them are seated in a circle on the floor. Richie and Eddie are side-by-side, and Eddie’s hand is resting palm up on his knee. Very tempting, very grabbable. Richie glances at Bill on his other side, who isn’t even looking at him. Richie looks back at Eddie’s hand, decides he’s a fucking coward, and clasps his own hands in his lap instead.

“A lot of shit I wish I didn’t,” Stan answers Mike, looking grim. Bev nods in agreement. 

“So we all remember the killer clown,” Richie says bluntly. Everyone cringes away from his words in a way that says _yeah, we remember the fucking clown, Richie._ “Alright, alright! Just making sure we’re all on the same page.” 

“We need to kill It for good this time,” Mike says. “We were close, before. We just need to finish the job.”

“Eddie whacked it over the head with a tree branch yesterday and it didn’t seem to like that,” Richie says. “We should just beat the shit out of it like we did last time, but with better weapons. Does anyone have a gun?”

“Oh yeah, let me just grab my glock out of my fanny pack,” Eddie deadpans. He really is wearing a fanny pack today. He looks like a disgruntled dad on vacation. _“No,_ none of us have _guns,_ Richie!” 

“How do we even know It _can_ be killed?” Stan demands.

“Everything can be killed,” Ben says, frowning.

“H-how can you be sure of that?” Bill says. “Who says It has to follow any r-r-rules?” 

“We were able to hurt It before,” Bev says with conviction. She looks over at Ben beside her and offers him a bracing smile. He returns it almost bashfully. The man is a shy thirteen-year-old wrapped up in the body of a swimsuit model, Richie thinks to himself. It’s unreal. “We can hurt It again. We just have to believe in ourselves.”

“Belief…” Mike says thoughtfully. “That’s what it always came down to, didn’t it? What we believed?” He looks to Bill, growing eager now. “Do you remember, Bill, when we fought It? And you shot It with the bolt gun twice, but the second time it wasn’t even loaded. But _you_ believed it was, and everyone else believed it was, so it worked. You still hurt It.”

“It goes both ways, though,” Bev cuts in. “Remember the blood in my bathroom? We believed in It, so _It_ could hurt _us,_ too.” 

Richie listens as his friends all continue to debate and stir up old memories. He’s thinking about what Eddie said to him a long time ago, about how the podcast was an outlet for him to _use_ his anxiety. It didn’t make the fear go away — it just channeled it into something useful. It made Eddie feel in control of the fear, something empowering, almost, instead of debilitating. 

“Mike,” he says, cutting off wherever the thread of conversation is going. “I have an idea.” 

\---

VANISHING ACT: SEASON 3 – DERRY

EPISODE 5 – “IN THE WORDS OF SMASH MOUTH...”

Publish Date: Aug. 3, 2016

[Ambient music plays.]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): I know what you’re thinking — a full episode? With music and everything? Well, folks, I have _great_ news, and it’s that one of my long-lost childhood friends is letting me use his laptop, so I have _editing software_ and _royalty free backing tracks_ once again, baby! I’m currently sitting in an attic in Derry, Maine, with six of the most important people in my life, most of whom I forgot existed until like, a day ago. If that sounds completely nuts to you, take a minute and make sure you’re caught up with the show. I can wait. 
> 
> If you’re caught up and it _still_ sounds bonkers, hey. I get it. This week on Vanishing Act, we’re doing a lot of things very differently, including the largest number of guests I’ve ever had in a single episode. I’m also going to ask a big ol’ favor from you listeners: I need you to listen. And I mean like, _really_ listen. And then I need you to believe.

[“The Killing Moon” instrumental fades in.]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): I’m Richie Tozier, and you’re listening to Vanishing Act. 

[Intro music plays and then fades out, replaced by somber ambient music.]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): I’m going to start out with a little story. As a reminder, every word of this is true. 
> 
> In the summer of 1989, seven kids in Derry, Maine ended up becoming best friends. They called themselves the Losers Club, which is all the context you need for the kind of kids these were. Each of them had their own demons to fight — regular life demons, like shitty parents and racism and homophobia, your standard smorgasbord of bigotries — but they also had to fight a literal, actual demon, for the sake of the entire town’s under-eighteen demographic. And they won the fight, against all fucking odds, but we — okay, yes, surprise, I’m one of the kids, this is an autobiographical season now — we didn’t _kill_ the demon. And now It’s back, and it’s got the munchies that only kid meat can satisfy. Okay, I’m getting dirty looks from _several_ of my friends.
> 
> The point is, It’s back, and so we’re back, too. And we’re trying something here, harnessing the most powerful weapon we have against it: belief. Hence the episode title reference. “I’m A Believer,” you know? _(speaking louder over sudden, indistinct background chatter)_ Hey fuck you, Shrek is a classic movie! I fucking _auditioned_ for that movie! We’re getting off track. 

[Musical interlude.]

RICHIE: Okay, here we go. I’m here with — you wanna state your name for the record?

BEVERLY: _(amused)_ You sound like a reporter.

RICHIE: I’m almost a reporter.

BEVERLY: Sure, honey. You keep thinking that. _(clears throat)_ My name is Beverly Marsh, and I’m the co-founder of Rogan and Marsh design company. 

RICHIE: Hey Bev. So I guess we should just… get right into it, huh? This is gonna be the easiest interview of your life, Marsh, I’ve only got two questions for you. First question is, uh, what were you scared of back then? And now, I guess. 

BEVERLY: _(laughs thinly)_ Well, they’re kind of the same thing, right? Then and now. That’s… I think that’s the whole point. I was scared of my father, when I was a kid. He — he didn’t want me to grow up. He didn’t want me to be anybody’s but his. More than anything else, that’s what I was scared of, that I’d never escape him. It made me scared to grow up, because of what he’d _do._ I got my fucking period and I was so scared to go home and have him find out. That’s when I cut my hair, you know. Because of him.

RICHIE: It suited you. The short hair.

BEVERLY: It did, right? Maybe I’ll do it again. The… the problem is, I _did_ get out. I got out of that situation and then… I fell right back into it. Rich, does this podcast get a pretty big audience?

RICHIE: _(makes a considering noise)_ I’d say so. We’re usually on the recommended page on iTunes. And this season’s been getting a lot of buzz because it’s so fucking weird.

BEVERLY: Okay. Well, this is as good a place to say it as any. _(deep breath)_ My husband and business partner, Tom Rogan, has been abusing me for — for fucking years. And I know some people knew, or suspected, you know, I’d have to hide the bruises and it was all so fucking obvious, but I was scared. I was scared of leaving, I was scared of telling someone. I got out of it once, and I let myself get stuck in the same shit as before? That’s what I’m scared of, most of all. Getting stuck, and never being able to get out and no one being there to help me.

RICHIE: Bev, I’m… fuck, I’m so sorry. 

BEVERLY: It’s okay. 

RICHIE: Okay. Alright. Uh, second question, you ready?

BEVERLY: _(a smile in her voice)_ Lay it on me. 

RICHIE: Tell me why you don’t need to be afraid anymore. 

BEVERLY: _(after a pause)_ Because… I did leave. I left my father, I got away from him and I didn’t let him hurt me anymore. And — I left Tom. When I told him I needed to go see some old friends for something important, he beat the shit out of me for it. But I got away, and I left my wedding ring on the porch, and when I was on the plane I got in touch with my lawyers. I’m leaving him. I’m getting out, because I know I can do it. I’m not alone, I have people who care and who will help. And I did then, too. I had you guys. 

[Musical interlude.]

RICHIE: Big Bill, you’re up.

BILL: _(snorts)_ Okay. I’m… William Denbrough, author and recently screenwriter, and m-my brother’s been the subject of this s-ssseason. Uh, I also just want to… apologize for the s-s-stutter. I haven’t stuttered since high school, but when I got into Derry today, it came b-back a little bit.

RICHIE: No worries, Billy boy, take your time. You heard the questions, so let’s just get started, I guess. What were you scared of?

BILL: When juh-Georgie went missing, my parents… fell apart. They got so — distant. It was like they d-didn’t even have another kid, you know? I was s-s-still there, but they didn’t… see me. I was scared that they didn’t love me anymore. That’s a f-f-fucked up thing for a kid to think about. And I thought they blamed me for what happened. _I_ blamed me.

RICHIE: _(quietly)_ It wasn’t your fault. None of that was. You were just a kid.

BILL: Wasn’t it, though? Wasn’t it m-me who dragged you all into this shit? 

RICHIE: Bill, shut up. We chose to be there. It was after us too, remember? That’s not on you. Okay? Now tell me why you’re not afraid of this shit anymore.

BILL: _(sighs)_

RICHIE: C’mon, man.

BILL: B-b-because I’m an adult now, and I can… understand, that my parents were just sad. It wasn’t right for them to t-treat me how they did, but it wasn’t because they didn’t love me. They were just… b-broken, after what happened. And that’s because of _It,_ not me. I didn’t f-f-fail my parents, I didn’t f-fail Georgie. And I didn’t fail you guys. _(softly)_ I was j-just a kid.

[Musical interlude.]

RICHIE: Take it away. 

MIKE: I’m Mike Hanlon, one of Richie’s significantly less famous friends. I’m a librarian.

RICHIE: _(laughs)_ People have been _very_ excitedly speculating about you on Twitter since last night’s mini-episode went up, I think you might be a little famous now. 

MIKE: Oh good, it’s about time. 

RICHIE: Talk to me about your deep dark fears, Mikey. 

MIKE: I mean, besides the obvious? I’m one of the only black people in a small town in northern Maine with a history of violence and hate crimes. But I think — I was scared of never getting out of here, when I was young, but then when I realized someone had to stay to make sure, to keep everyone safe, it got to where I was scared _of_ leaving. And I started thinking, Jesus Christ, I’m going to die in this town! The clown’s not even going to be the thing that kills me! My grandfather lived and died in Derry. My parents lived and were killed here. They never left. I thought it was going to be three generations of Hanlons dead in Derry. You know, the closer it got to twenty-seven years, I started worrying that even if It was really dead, I wouldn’t know how to uproot myself after so long. I was so goddamn scared that I’d never leave.

RICHIE: But…?

MIKE: But I did get out. And — and it’s okay. Because we’re still all here together, we’re still going to do what we have to do, and then I’m going to leave again. For good. I know I can do it, because I _did_ do it, and I was okay. I was more than okay, I was goddamn _great._ I’m not going to rot in Derry. I really believe that. 

[Musical interlude.]

RICHIE: Listeners, I really wish I made video podcasts, just so you could see how hot all my friends are. You’ve all seen pictures of me, you’d never believe I’m friends with these people. I’m looking at Mr. Chiseled Adonis over here. You wanna introduce yourself?

BEN: _(laughing, embarrassed)_ I don’t know, that was a pretty good intro. I’ll stick with that. No, really, uh, I’m Ben Hanscom. I’m an architect, and I wasn’t born here in Derry, but I did live here for quite a while. 

RICHIE: New kid on the block, one might say.

BEN: Only Beverly’s allowed to make that joke. 

RICHIE: _(snorts)_ Fair enough. Let’s talk fears.

BEN: Dying alone, I guess. Yeah, I mean, that’s a pretty morbid fear for a kid to have, but — I was the new kid, and I was the fat kid, so I didn’t really envision I was gonna have a lot of friends in my life. Every time I pictured my future, I was just… alone. And you know, as I’ve gotten older, some things have changed. I was in a really unhealthy place in high school, with how I ate and how I treated my body, and I’m better about it now but I still lost a lot of weight. I’ve got a very successful business now, and people respect me. But I still go home at the end of the day and I’m just… alone. 

RICHIE: Now tell me why you don’t have to be afraid of that anymore.

BEN: Because… well, because you guys are here again. And it’s been such a long time, but — I think we all still love each other. You know how rare that is? We met in middle school, so much has changed, we haven’t seen each other in so long, but I love you guys. And I believe — I _know_ you love me, too. So I know I’m not going to die alone, not with you all in my life. 

[Musical interlude.]

RICHIE: My man, Stan!

STAN: That’s me. 

RICHIE: Okay, come on, do the intro like everyone else, you turd.

STAN: _(deadpan)_ Hi, I’m Stan Uris, and I’m an accountant from Georgia. _(in a kinder, more engaged voice)_ Also, shoutout to my wife, Patty. Wish you were here, babylove! I’m still gonna get you that autograph. 

RICHIE: Patty, I sincerely hope to meet you someday, since you’re apparently my number one fan. Even if I did just have to hear your husband call you sickeningly sweet pet names. Jeez, Uris, way to rub your domestic bliss in my face.

STAN: What, like you don’t have a good thing going with —

RICHIE: _(cutting him off)_ Fears! Let’s hear ’em, Stanley! 

STAN: I… _(pauses, then sighs)_ Honestly? I’m afraid of being afraid. I don’t mean in that “all we have to fear is fear itself” bullshit way, I mean I am _terrified_ of feeling scared and helpless. I will do anything I can to avoid it. And that’s what this whole thing is about, right? It’s all about fear. When Mike called me and asked me to come back, when he reminded me why I’ve spent my whole life afraid — shit. I almost — I mean. I almost didn’t come. 

RICHIE: I know, man, it’s okay.

STAN: No, Richie, you don’t know. I mean that I almost — _(silence, then a sharp inhale)_

RICHIE: _(distressed)_ Jesus, Stan.

STAN: I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

RICHIE: No, cut that out, you don’t — fuck, Stan, you don’t have to be _sorry._ It is fuckin’ scary. Of course it is. But you came anyway.

STAN: I did. I guess I just thought — we’re all just a bunch of losers, right? What else do I have to lose? _(laughs ruefully)_ So I came back. And I’m still scared shitless, but I’m here. I didn’t think I’d be able to do that, but I did it, and that’s. That’s gotta count for something, right? I think it does. 

[Musical interlude.]

RICHIE: A man who needs no introduction, but I’m making him give one anyway.

EDDIE: Hey, I’m Eddie Kaspbrak, and literally everyone who listens to this show knows who I am. Hi. 

RICHIE: _(fondly)_ Hey, Eds. You ready to talk fears? 

EDDIE: No, but I will anyway. _(a beat)_ When I was a kid, my mom told me I was sick. I wasn’t, but she gave me fake medicine, told me I had asthma, a whole bunch of fucked-up shit I don’t need to get into detail about on here. And when I was married, it was the same kind of — she said I was _weak,_ I needed someone to _take care of me,_ to protect me from — I don’t fucking know, the world? Myself? I was always so scared of being sick, but then I already _was_ sick. That’s what my mom kept telling me, you know? I was already sick. And I was so scared of getting infected, you remember, I was always fucking freaking out about AIDS and dirty needles back then, but I think deep down, I wasn’t scared so much of something getting me sick. I was scared that it was _me._ That I was the leper all along. I was the infection. 

RICHIE: Eds… 

EDDIE: But here’s the thing, I fucking stood up to my mom once, and I left my wife so she couldn’t make me feel like I was — weak and helpless. And I still spend so much time thinking I’m sick, because I don’t know how else to think about myself anymore, you know? That’s just what I am. _(deep breath)_ But it’s actually fucking _not,_ right? I’m not sick. I’m not sick with anything. And I didn’t — when we — I didn’t infect you. _(softer)_ I’m not gonna infect you. I used to be so scared of that but I _know_ it’s not true. 

So, uh, yeah. That’s — that’s why I don’t need to be scared. Because I don’t believe that fucking placebo bullshit anymore. I’m not the infection. There is no infection. I’m just — fine. I’m fucked up in the head a little, maybe, but I’m okay.

[Musical interlude.]

EDDIE: Best for last, huh?

RICHIE: _(chuckles nervously)_ Something like that. Uh, well, you all know me. Richie Tozier, also known as Trashmouth, also known as your beloved host. _(long, audible exhale)_ Jesus fuck. This is so scary, how did you guys all just say shit?

EDDIE: All you _do_ all day is say shit. 

RICHIE: _(humorlessly)_ Not this. 

EDDIE: You still want to do it? 

RICHIE: Yeah. Yeah, I have to. Just ask the question, man.

EDDIE: Okay. Rich, what are you afraid of? 

RICHIE: _(deep breath)_ I… fuck, I was always so scared of people _knowing._ I’m _still_ so scared of it. And everyone fucking knew anyway, they all talked about it and they all _knew,_ but if I didn’t say it then at least they couldn’t prove anything. So yeah, I say shit, but not the _real_ shit. Not the truth. Because the truth gets you fucking beat up and outcast and — and fucking killed. I was scared of going missing, you remember that? We were all scared of that, I guess, I mean we had good fucking reason to be. But I was scared because kids go missing in Derry, but gay people go missing fucking _everywhere._ You don’t even have to be a kid. 

I — fuck, I’ve never said it out loud. I can’t believe I’m about to say this with all of you guys here and a fucking microphone. _(shakily)_ I’m gay. Oh god. 

EDDIE: Richie, breathe. You sound like me right now.

RICHIE: _(choked laughter)_ Shut up. _(deep breath, loud exhale)_ Okay. Wow. Uh, so I guess that’s why I don’t have to be afraid now. Because I said it, and now people know, and. And it’s probably fine. And if it’s not — whatever. I yelled at homophobes yesterday and they couldn’t even fucking touch me. If anyone listening has a problem with me now, fuck you, buddy! Fuck right off! I’m a big ol’ homo and I have been the whole time, take it or fucking leave it! 

[Musical interlude.]

> RICHIE (VOICEOVER): We were just seven kids scared out of our fucking skulls for one stupid summer, and we faced a fucking supernatural clown monster and then we had to go on and carry all that fear inside us for twenty-seven years without even knowing why. And now we have to face it again, so I have a little request — I need you guys to believe this shit. I need you to believe that it’s true, and that we are strong enough together to stop it. I think what we’re all afraid of, in some way or another, is ending up alone. That’s what happens to losers, right? But maybe not this time. Kinda depends on you. 
> 
> I’m not going to be recording anything when we go to face It. This is one of those situations where I don’t think “hearing both sides” is a good idea. I’m not giving that fucker access to a wider audience. So I’ll leave things here, and hopefully you’ll hear back from me with an update when this is all over. I’ll tweet a Dropbox link to the mini-episode, as usual, so keep an eye out. 
> 
> I’m Richie Tozier. This has been Vanishing Act. See ya on the flipside. 

\---

The house on Neibolt Street is as imposing as Richie remembers — he hoped that it would seem smaller and less intimidating now that he’s taller and older and (maybe) braver, but it still looms above the seven of them. The moon is obscured by clouds overhead, so the house is drenched in shadow. The ground is dry and dead. A broken bottle crunches under Mike’s boot as he and Bill lead the way across the lawn. 

“I still think we should’ve brought guns,” Richie says to no one in particular.

“Give it a rest, Richie,” Stan says. He’s got his arms crossed so tightly that it makes Richie’s shoulders hurt just looking at him. 

They make it to the porch and start climbing the steps up when Eddie grabs Richie’s arm. “Rich, wait, hang on. I — I gotta tell you something before we go in there.”

Richie stops, turning to look at him. “Yeah, what’s up, buddy?”

Eddie glances at their friends, all of whom are standing on the porch and very conspicuously acting like they’re not listening. Sighing, Eddie grabs Richie’s hands in both of his own. His jaw works for a moment, eyes darting back and forth as he takes in Richie’s face, and then he just starts talking like the words are spilling out of him. “I love you. And I — I need you to know that, I’m sorry I couldn’t say it back when you said it before. But I do, I fucking _love you,_ dude.”

Richie’s face grows warm. “I love you too, Eds.”

But Eddie isn’t done. His eyes are big and almost pleading as he continues, “It shouldn’t be so fucking hard for me to say. It’s just, you know, for a long time I didn’t think I knew how to love someone in a way that was — healthy, I guess. With my mom and then my ex, it was never healthy, it was never good. It never made me feel good. But then I met you and it was like, even before I got divorced and before I remembered everything and we were just, like, _friends_ doing this stupid podcast together, I knew you made me feel good. _You’re_ good, Richie, and how I feel about you is — it’s really, really good. Tell me to stop saying good.”

Richie blinks rapidly, trying not to fucking bawl, and grins shakily. “No.”

“I just needed you to hear that, before we go in there. In case something happens, I didn’t want — I don’t want one of us to —”

“Jesus, Eddie, would you quit talking like that?” Richie interrupts, alarmed. “We’re not gonna die, okay, we’re gonna get through this and then you can tell me you love me a hundred times if you want to.”

“I can’t help it, it’s my job to prepare for every outcome. And there’s no outcome where I’d be okay with you walking into that house without hearing me say it first.” Eddie takes a shuddery breath and mumbles, “I hope it, like, helps you feel brave. To know that. I don’t know.”

Richie hears someone sniffle, and glances over at his friends to see that every single one of them is teary-eyed, because baring their souls to each other earlier has made them all extra emotional and they’re a bunch of fucking crybabies. But that’s fine, because Richie’s the biggest crybaby of them all. He has a split-second moment of nervous hesitation, because even though his friends know he’s gay and it’s pretty fucking obvious he and Eddie are _something,_ kissing him right now will confirm everything beyond question. But he really can’t _not_ kiss Eddie after all that, he physically cannot contain himself. Richie reels Eddie in by their linked hands and kisses him firmly, letting their noses bump together so the bridge of his glasses presses into his face. 

When they part, Eddie smiles slightly, but his eyes are still full of melancholy. Honestly, Richie can’t blame him. Reassurances aside, he’s — nervous, about all this. _You can be nervous, just don’t wimp out,_ he tells himself. _You gotta be braver than you’ve ever been since you were in the eighth fucking grade, Trashmouth. Moment of truth._

They step over the threshold into the house, one after the other. Richie watches Bill’s foot settle on a layer of grime and dust on the floorboards and half expects him to be swallowed up, vanished. Eddie is trembling, his breath coming in shallow bursts. This was _his_ nightmare, Richie remembers — this house, with its dank yellow light and the pleading screams of lost children from behind closed doors. He takes Eddie’s hand and they step into the house together. 

It’s dark, and Bill and Mike both pull out their flashlights and click them on, so everyone else follows suit. Everything is so dirty, and so untouched, like no one’s been inside in the years since the seven of them were there last. Richie looks down at the floor, half-expecting to see the faded imprints of his own childhood sneakers in the dirt. 

They’re all standing there in the middle of the front room, vaguely uncertain, when the door swings shut behind them with a loud creak and a snap. Everyone jumps — Bev and Eddie both yelp.

When they turn around, a figure is standing in front of the closed door, chest heaving, seven flashlight beams cutting him up into irregular angles, glinting off the knife in his hand. Henry Bowers grins with all his teeth, his eyes wide and almost vacant. He’s drenched in sweat, so bad Richie can smell it from across the room. 

“Oh _fuck,”_ Eddie whispers.

“What the fuck is he doing here,” Stan says. 

Richie can’t look away. He really thought — he _really_ had himself convinced that Bowers was just an illusion, back in the Barrens. He thought they were safe. And fuck, they’re seven capable adults against one fucking lunatic with a knife, surely they can take him down, but Richie feels shrunken with childhood terror — looking at the first person to ever catch him in the act and see the shameful truth he carried inside. 

“End of the line, Losers,” Bowers spits, leering. “I’ve waited twenty-seven goddamn years to cut you into pieces.”

“Come on, Henry,” Mike says, like he’s trying to talk down a rabid dog. “You’re outnumbered. You know you can’t hurt us. Give it up.” 

“Who’s first?” Bowers says, ignoring Mike entirely. He looks at Richie, making horrible eye contact. “How ’bout you, Tozier? You think I’d forget? You think I don’t remember what you _did?”_

Richie’s stomach churns. He never told the others — they _still_ don’t know about Bowers’ cousin, about the arcade. It doesn’t even matter now, but that old fear of them finding out is souring in Richie’s gut, burning like acid in his throat. “Don’t fucking come at me with that knife, man,” he says hoarsely. “I mean it, stay the fuck back.”

“Nowhere to run now,” Bowers says, giggling, taking a step forward. Prowling like an animal. He barely seems human, and Richie wonders how much is Henry Bowers anymore, and how much is the clown. “Nowhere to fuckin’ hide.” He stops, now standing in the middle of the room. He’s maybe five feet from Richie. No one moves, no one even breathes. 

All at once, Bowers lunges. Richie yells, “Oh holy fucking shit!” and swings up a fist to clock Bowers right in the nose, and then tackles him to the floor. His flashlight goes skittering out of his hand, spinning in a circle, as he tries to pin a wildly flailing Bowers to the ground. Everyone is shouting, and Richie bellows over all the chaos, _“Somebody get his fucking knife!”_

He feels one of the Losers next to him, wrenching the switchblade from Bowers’ grip, but then Bowers is grappling Richie with both meaty hands, clawing at his face, trying to grab his throat. They’re rolling on the floor now, wrestling ineffectively, and Bowers gets Richie pinned underneath him in a twist and flurry of limbs. Richie can barely breathe, he can feel Bowers’ grimy fingernails digging into the vulnerable flesh of his neck, and he thinks _oh god, all those years he said he was gonna kill me and now he’s finally making good on the promise_ —

There’s a sick squelching sound, and Bowers goes still, his eyes bugging wide. He lurches up from Richie, staggering, and Richie scrambles to his feet. Eddie is standing just behind Bowers, looking alarmed, one hand still outstretched from where he’s just jammed the knife into Bowers’ back. 

They all watch as Bowers continues to waver, blood drenching the back of his shirt, and then he falls backwards, landing on the knife and burying it deeper into his back. He wheezes like a punctured balloon and his eyes shut. 

“Holy shit!” Ben says.

“Is he _dead?”_ Bev asks.

“Oh fuck, oh god, oh my god,” Eddie says, running both his hands through his hair. “Oh my god, did I just kill him? I’m gonna go to fucking jail, man!”

“Eddie, you’re not going to jail,” Stan says, staring at Bowers’ motionless form.

“It was clearly self defense,” Mike adds. He claps Eddie on the shoulder, bracing.

“I don’t think he’s dead,” Ben says, pointing. Sure enough, Bowers’ chest is rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Bill pinches the bridge of his nose. “We need to finish what we c-c-came here to do. We’ll figure this out after.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie says. “What are we supposed to do, just leave him here?” He shakes his head a few times. “Oh god, okay, okay. Richie, are you alright?”

Richie rubs a hand gingerly over his neck, where he can feel scraped, tender skin from Bowers’ scrabbling hands. “Yeah, I — I’m good.” His skin is buzzing from adrenaline, crawling from the phantom sensation of Bowers’ hands all over him. “Would love to stop having near-death experiences, but I’m good.” 

“We should keep moving, in case he wakes up,” Mike says, grimacing down at Bowers. He and Bill lead the charge through the house, toward the basement stairs. Eddie grabs Richie’s hand as they go, squeezing it tight. 

Down the rope, into the well, through the sewers — it’s all too familiar, like it only happened days ago. They trudge through knee-deep water, and Richie tries not to think about his own decapitated head floating up to the surface. They’re walking in some semblance of a line: Mike, then Bill, then Ben, then Beverly, then Eddie, then Richie, then Stan. No one’s really saying much; no one’s really questioning if they all know where they’re going, because they do. Pulled like a magnet to the heart of the sewers, to the rotten, pulsing core of Derry. 

The tunnel seems to go on endlessly, and their flashlight beams only reach so far before everything’s swallowed up into the black again. Just when Richie’s starting to think maybe, somehow, they made a wrong turn, the water starts to get shallower and it all opens up to the old cistern, where they found Bev floating when they were kids. There’s no children in the air now, no mountains of trash piled up to the ceiling, but the old caravan is still there. _Pennywise the Dancing Clown,_ it reads. 

“Why the fuck does he call himself that, he never even danced,” Richie mutters.

Bev turns around to look at him past Eddie. “He did once. It was…” She pauses, shaking her head. “I think it was meant to scare me. Honestly I was just kind of uncomfortable.” 

Richie snorts. “Tough critic, Ms. Marsh. Maybe that’s the real reason he Deadlighted you —” Before he can say another word, his flashlight flickers and goes out. “Uhhh, that’s ominous.”

Beside him, Eddie’s flashlight dies, then Stan’s. One by one, everyone’s flashlights burn out until only Mike’s is left at the head of the line, and the cistern is plunged into a nearly impenetrable darkness.

“Nice job giving us faulty flashlights, Mikey, didja forget to change all the batteries?” Richie jokes weakly. He can only see the vaguest outline of Mike’s face. He can’t see Ben or Beverly at all anymore. 

“We need to stick together,” Bev says urgently. “Everyone hold hands.” 

Richie was already holding Eddie’s hand, so he fumbles back to grab Stan’s sweaty hand in his. Six dead flashlights clunk to the ground as they all drop them. Very slowly, Mike continues to lead them through the cistern. None of them are exactly sure what they’re looking for, but so far the whole place seems deserted. Richie feels like he’s in kindergarten again, all the kids holding hands in a line as they walked through the museum in Bangor for a field trip. Making sure no one got lost or left behind or snatched away. He had no idea, back then, how real a risk that was.

Mike’s flashlight beam illuminates water-stained cement and huge sewer grates and the faded paint on the caravan — and a giant, gleaming yellow eye. Mike yelps and jerks back, his flashlight roaming back over the eye, and the Losers all freeze in place as the light reveals another giant eye, a red mouth full of enormous, razorblade teeth. 

It’s the clown, and It’s fucking huge. Towering above them, at least twenty fucking feet, and through the gloom Richie thinks he sees enormous spidery crab legs bursting from Pennywise’s torso, slate grey and scaly. 

“What the _fuck?!”_ Eddie shouts.

Pennywise grins, all jagged and hungry, and Richie is afraid. He is afraid the way he would be afraid if he was standing in front of a hungry bear or a crocodile, or some other wild animal that he probably shouldn’t get within a dozen yards of. He is not, however, the soul-clenching kind of afraid that he once was when Pennywise tormented them all as children. This is part of growing up, maybe — monsters under the bed and in the closest and in the drains aren’t what’s scary anymore.

“We’re not afraid of you,” Bev says, like she’s read Richie’s mind.

Pennywise must know this is true, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. He just continues to leer, like he knows something they don’t. Then he speaks in the gravelly gurgle of a voice that’s haunted Richie’s nightmares for weeks. “Lights out, Losers.” 

Mike’s flashlight goes dead. 

The darkness is absolute. Like the storm sewer in the Barrens, it feels like a black hole, a darkness so thick the absence of light has a tangible presence, a weight to it. It’s pressing in on Richie from all sides, and he realizes all at once that he can’t feel Eddie or Stan’s hands in his anymore. He doesn’t feel the warmth of their bodies shoulder-to-shoulder with him. He feels suddenly, deeply afraid. He’s alone here, in the dark.

“Eds?” he calls out. His voice sounds muffled, cottony. “Stan? Guys?” 

No response. _They’re gone,_ he thinks, his stomach churning with terror. _They’re gone, I’m alone, Eddie is gone —_

Just as his blood starts to feel like ice and he thinks he might truly spiral, he thinks of Eddie’s voice on the phone, two years ago. For so, so long, he couldn’t feel or see Eddie, but Eddie was still there. Richie knows better than anyone how a person can still be _there,_ providing comfort and companionship even with they’re intangible. As he thinks it, he feels a sudden warmth in his right hand, a settling weight, and he knows it’s Eddie. _He’s still here, we’re all still here,_ he tells himself. Then, with more conviction, he says it out loud. “We’re all still fucking here!” 

Eddie’s hand squeezes his in the dark, and he can feel Stan’s hand now too, though it’s fainter, less solid. _It’s all about what we believe,_ Richie thinks. This fucking clown wants them to think they’re all alone, because alone they’re vulnerable and easily destroyed. But they’re _not_ — and Richie’s done seeing what It wants him to see. 

“I believe that Stan the _fuckin’_ Man is brave enough to face his fears,” Richie says loudly. His words hang in the air, and Stan’s fingers wiggle in his grip. After a second, they grow firmer, as solid as Eddie’s. _There ya go, Stan._

From somewhere up ahead, he hears Ben’s voice. “I believe that Beverly Marsh is strong enough to face her demons.”

Then Bill: “I believe Mike Hanlon is strong enough to live the life he deserves.”

Right beside Richie, Eddie’s voice: “I believe Richie Tozier is brave enough to be true to himself.” And boy if that doesn’t spike like adrenaline to his heart. Is that what his words did for Stan? Richie _feels_ stronger, his heart pumping not with fear but with a rush of excitement, because they can fucking _do_ this. Richie’s never known anyone else in his life as brave and strong and capable as the six people around him, screaming into the dark. 

They carry on, all of them shouting out their beliefs — “I believe Ben Hanscom is truly loved” and “I believe Eddie Kaspbrak is the bravest motherfucker alive” — until Stan just goes, “I believe in Bill Denbrough!” and then that’s what they’re all yelling — that they believe in each other, as simple as that. Richie can feel them all shifting in the dark, and he knows what’s happening. The circle, they’re forming the circle, Stan is grabbing Mike’s hand and he can feel the phantom pulse of pain in his palms, the warmth of connection binding the seven of them together. 

Richie can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed. For a second, he gets a glimpse, a flash, of his dead face in the sewers again, but it looks… fake, now. Plastic, a dummy head. It’s not real, of _course_ it’s not real. It never was. 

“I don’t _fucking_ believe in you!” he bellows. The others start to scream it too — and Richie can feel something sparking in the air around them, between them. It’s like — like _magic,_ and this magic is real and it’s _theirs._ Magic is real but monsters are not, and Richie squeezes Stan and Eddie’s hands and believes. 

It takes him a moment to realize that his eyes must be closed after all, because there’s a faint glow seeping in through his eyelids. He blinks them open and sees Mike’s flashlight on the floor in the center of the circle they’ve formed. There’s something else in the circle, too, but it takes Richie’s eyes a moment to process it. 

It’s Pennywise, or what’s left of It. It’s shrunken to the size of a small animal, filled with fissures and cracks like when Bill shot It with the empty bolt gun when they were kids. Spider legs sprawling, It looks… _fake_ is the first word that comes to Richie’s mind. Like their belief in each other has sapped the believability right out of It, and all that’s left is this sad shell. Something not even a child would be all that scared of. It makes rasping, incredulous gurgling noises as they all stare down at It in the faint light.

“We’re not fucking afraid,” Eddie says, squeezing Richie’s hand so hard it hurts.

“It’s over,” Bill says. He steps forward, and they all follow, because Bill seems to know what to do. He plunges his hand into Pennywise’s chest, which rips apart as easy as tissue paper, and pulls out a faintly pulsing, blackened heart. _The rotten core,_ Richie thinks. There it is, bloodied and small in Bill’s palm. 

Mike puts his hand over it, covering Bill’s, and Bev follows suit. One by one, they cover the heart, and then they squeeze. Richie feels Eddie shudder beside him as the heart bursts, oozing through their fingers. Pennywise lets out one final death rattle, and then crumbles entirely to dust. 

Scattered around the cistern, the rest of their flashlights come back on. 

They drop hands, wincing at the black sludge that drips down, and then stare at the ashen remains of Pennywise on the ground. They all look at each other — now that the effects of their magic circle are wearing off, everyone’s looking kind of stunned.

Richie, who’s never sat well with tension, says, “See, but wouldn’t that have been way more satisfying if we had a gun? Coulda just —” he makes a finger gun and mimes shooting the dust where Pennywise once was. _“Blammo.”_

Bev snorts, trying to hide a laugh, and the rest of them lose it a moment later — even Stan, though he rolls his eyes as he does it. Richie swells with pride. A second later the whole cistern starts to tremble and collapse, and the moment is gone, but Richie’s still grinning the whole way out. 

It’s not until they’re all standing on the sidewalk in the light of early dawn, watching the Neibolt house collapse into itself, that Mike says, “Oh, shit, Bowers.”

“Was he still in there?” Ben asks, eyes widening.

“Well, guess that gets you outta prison, Eds!” Richie says, slapping Eddie on the back. Eddie just stares at him, wild-eyed with stunned relief. Richie’s heart clenches, and he says, “Hey, so — I’m ready to have the ‘what are we’ conversation now.”

Eddie’s eyebrows jump. “Really? Like, _right_ now?”

“Yeah. Listen, Eddie, I don’t care what you want to label it, I just know — I’m in love with you, I have been for two and half years, or like twenty-eight years depending on how you look at it, and I just. I want to be with you. However you’ll have me.” 

Eddie blinks a few times. Richie’s very aware of everyone else staring at the two of them, like this is more interesting than the house of their nightmares imploding fifteen feet away. “Can you record your podcast anywhere?” Eddie asks, which feels like a very irrelevant question, but Richie’s rolling with the punches.

“Considering we just did an episode in a library attic in _Derry,_ yeah, I’d say so,” Richie says.

Eddie grins. “Good. Because I think you should come live with me in New York.”

Now it’s Richie’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “You — yeah? That’d be okay?”

“I’m done wasting time,” Eddie says. He peers around Richie to give the others a stern look. “And you all better visit, too.”

“Or better yet, just move to New York!” Richie says, turning around and flinging his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “We can all go in on one of those gigantic houses together. Friendship mansion!” 

“I’ll talk to Patty about it,” Stan deadpans, but he breaks a second later, grinning. 

“Hey, anyone else want to go the fuck to bed?” Bev asks.

_“God,_ yes, I haven’t slept in like a day and a half,” Eddie says, slumping against Richie’s side. 

“Good work team, the evil is defeated, let’s hit the showers,” Richie says in his best Sports Coach Voice. Everyone groans half-heartedly and he hears a couple _beep-beeps_ thrown his way. He presses his face into Eddie’s hair and smiles.

\---

**Richie Tozier ✓** @trashmouth

Been too busy fighting a demon to read thru all the replies but thanks for the positive response to last ep! Warms my big gay heart. Btw, ding-dong the clown is dead. Here’s a recap: http://bit.ly/VAmini3

578 Retweets **·** 3.3K Likes

**Richie Tozier ✓** @trashmouth

Loser supreme + a bunch of hot people pic.twitter.com/lc789

27K Retweets **·** 88K Likes

_[Image description: The Losers Club all crowded together for a selfie, everyone mugging for the camera, looking both overtired and triumphant. Richie is hanging over Eddie’s shoulders and giving him an exaggerated kiss on the cheek.]_

> **Richie Tozier ✓** @trashmouth
> 
> Three guesses which one is Eddie #reddie 
> 
> 30K Retweets **·** 80K Likes
> 
> **Richie Tozier ✓** @trashmouth
> 
> And yes I HAVE known about the hashtag for the last 2 years. Don’t say I never gave u anything
> 
> 16K Retweets **·** 79K Likes

\---

  
  


**Richie**

hey

**Steve** 👎

Richard. Fucking. Tozier.

**Richie**

uh oh, busting out the middle name and everything?

**Steve** 👎

Do you have any idea how many times I’ve called you????

How many times I called EDDIE????

What the fuck is wrong with you, Rich?! 

**Richie**

i know, man, i know.

seriously, i’m really sorry.

i had shit to deal with and i didn’t want to get u involved.

i know i’ve been a fucking miserable client lately. 

i won’t blame u at all if u wanna fire me.

**Steve** 👎

I do not want to fire you.

I would love to know where your bright ideas for this season came from.

What the fuck was up with that?

**Richie**

it’s all real

**Steve** 👎

Is that really the angle you’re gonna go for?

Is this like what they did for the Blair Witch Project?

**Richie**

no dude it’s just real

the clown, the memory loss, all of it.

i’m not fucking kidding

**Steve** 👎

Okay. Fine.

I guess I can play along with that.

How is Eddie?

**Richie**

u mean did we “hook up” yet

**Steve** 👎

Look I’m sorry for asking that before, it’s not my business.

**Richie**

the answer is yes btw

does no one check my twitter??

**Steve** 👎

FINALLY.

Alright Trashmouth, if I call are you going to pick up this time?

**Richie**

only one way to find out!

\---

**Call ended with Steve** 👎

Duration: 02:13:57

\---

**Variety ✓** @variety

Fashion mogul Beverly Marsh comes clean about ex-husband Tom Rogan’s abuse in episode of childhood friend’s podcast. http://bit.ly/Marsh

2.3K Retweets **·** 7K Likes

**BuzzFeed ✓** @BuzzFeed

5 Reasons Why You Should Be Listening to Richie Tozier’s Vanishing Act Season 3: http://bit.ly/vanishingact

600 Retweets **·** 1.7K Likes

**Adrian 🖤** @gaydrian

@trashmouth thanks again for the assist and congrats on #reddie trending lol

> **Richie Tozier ✓** @trashmouth
> 
> @gaydrian Anytime man, say hi to your bf for me! #adridon? 
> 
> 765 Retweets **·** 4.1K Likes

\---

Richie finds himself, once again, on a bridge.

He feels an instant, instinctive flood of trepidation, but the lighting is not unnatural and there is no tension in the air. He spins in a little circle, but he doesn’t see Eddie. This time, he’s alone. He moves to the bridge railing and peers over. The water runs clear, no sewage or blood or evil clowns. It’s pretty fucking peaceful, honestly. Richie’d even go so far as to say it’s _zen._

Down on the bank of the stream, Richie spots movement. It’s a turtle, flipped over onto its back, its little legs wiggling ineffectively. Richie frowns. The bridge isn’t very high up, and he easily vaults over the railing into the shin-high water. He wades to the bank and crouches down, getting the ass of his jeans wet. The turtle is so small that its whole shell fits perfectly in Richie’s palm. He thinks about what Eddie would say, how he’d lecture Richie about turtles carrying salmonella or some shit, and grins to himself. He tips the turtle over onto its feet again, and it lifts its tiny head to look at him with beady eyes. The turtle might be small, but Richie feels for a moment like there’s a whole goddamn universe in those shiny black dots. 

He sits down on the bank next to the turtle, leaving his feet in the water. It’s cold, flowing steadily and making his jeans stick to his skin. The wind rustles the tall grass, and the sun warms his face. 

Richie wakes up very suddenly, but it’s not particularly jarring. He’s just instantly fully conscious. He blinks up at the ceiling of the room in the Townhouse, staring at the water stain that Eddie bitched about several hours ago when they were getting ready for bed. They’re both crammed onto one of the twin beds, because Richie was right and they _can_ fit when they snuggle up close. Eddie’s got his head pillowed on Richie’s bare chest, one hand curled into a loose fist against Richie’s ribs. Eddie’s breathing the slow, steady breaths of deep sleep. He looks peaceful, his brow smoothed out for once, his mouth slightly open. 

Richie has never really been all that comfortable in his own skin. He’s always thought he was kind of awkwardly put together: limbs longer than he knows what to do with and wonky teeth and a huge fucking forehead. He’s spent a good portion of his life trying to pretend he doesn’t inhabit his own body — with the impressions and the podcasting job where no one can see his face, and plenty of other shit throughout his life that’s still just starting to come back to him. 

But right now? Right now, Richie feels fuckin’ _great_ about his physical form. He’s glad to have a chest that Eddie deems comfortable enough to rest on, he’s glad to have a heart that Eddie can fall asleep to the sound of. Richie’s suddenly so fucking grateful to exist, and it’s a crazy weird new feeling for him, so much so that he can’t help but jostle Eddie slightly, trying to wake him up.

“Hey, Eds,” he whispers.

Eddie makes a series of dismayed groaning noises and squishes his face against Richie’s chest. “Nooo,” he mumbles, sleep-slurred. He’s still mostly unconscious, but he starts sort of petting Richie’s chest hair and cracks open one eye. 

Richie bites down on his tongue to keep from laughing. “C’mon, wake up. I had a dream.”

Eddie stills. “What… kind of dream?” he asks warily, sounding more awake.

“Not a nightmare,” Richie says. “It was weird.” He thinks about the weight of the turtle in his palm, the bracing chill of the Kenduskeag against his legs. “It was good, though.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, bemused. He shifts slightly, tipping his head back so he can look at Richie from the truly unflattering angle of directly up his nose. 

“You know what’s cool?” Richie says suddenly. “We’re fucking alive, man.” Because it _is_ cool, it’s really goddamn cool. Richie can’t think of anything cooler than the fact that he gets to be alive right now, with Eddie. 

And Eddie is looking at him with a fondness that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and then he pushes up from Richie’s chest to kiss him, sleepy and indulgent. 

Which is also pretty fucking cool. 

\---

**Vanishing Act  
** Trashmouth Productions   
★★★★★ (25,532 ratings)

Parental Advisory – Explicit Content  
[Subscribe]

Details | Ratings and Reviews | Related

From the Provider:

Vanishing Act is a part-fiction, part-factual crime podcast hosted by comedian Richie Tozier and his husband Eddie Kaspbrak. The first two seasons feature true crime reporting on missing person cases, and the third season is a supernatural docudrama based on Tozier and Kaspbrak’s childhoods. The show has been running since 2013 and is currently on its fourth season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand that's a wrap! cue the outro music! 
> 
> no real easter eggs for this chapter; reworking the pennywise "fight" in this way was a real challenge and i hope it was an enjoyable change of pace! i listened to the entire it chapter 2 soundtrack while writing the neibolt section of this chapter, and wrote the end of it while the last song was playing, which made me weepy. 
> 
> find me on twitter @hermanngottiieb! and pls leave a comment to let me know what u think! <33


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